


Circle In The Sand

by Quinkin



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Action, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Post-Deathwish, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinkin/pseuds/Quinkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things go south on a job, things <i>really</i> go South for Michael. Fortunately, Franklin and Trevor aren't too far behind. Then everything gets complicated.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><i>A/n:</i> Life has calmed down a bit, and I'm working on getting back at this. I'll probably be busy through the holidays, but it <i>is</i> coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four Fucking Days

**Author's Note:**

> First fic I've written since 2012 - I am not joking with you. It has been a while for me. Also, no Beta - just a fair warning. Also, also, should probably mention that this started out as 4 different fics that just sort of began to bleed into each other the more I worked on them - so here's hoping everything works out. If not, then I do apologize. Anyway, thanks for stopping by! Hope you enjoy!

Michael was fucked. 

And not in the leg-wobbling way he liked to be fucked. No, this was the kind of fuckery that usually started when Michael couldn't quite control himself, and then only ended after Amanda threatened divorce or a few dozen rounds of ammunition had found themselves into some well deserving targets. The later being the most probable outcome of what, Michael was sure, was to be a very regretful evening. Possibly his last. 

The “retired” thief sighed as the 'Call Ended' notification flashed lazily on the cheap flip phone in his hand, the screen's hollow glow being the only light in the darkened Rocoto. It was well past sundown, and other than the patter of November rain, Los Santos lay quiet around him. He had been sitting alone for quite some time, the strain of the past few days threatening to put him to sleep. He was sure he'd be halfway through some night terror by then if it wasn't for the fact that he was technically working. 

Folding the phone closed, Michael eased back into the passenger seat, staring at his reflection in the blackened window. He didn't know why he had made the call, he certainly knew he couldn't get out of this. Couldn't even try. 

It didn't even matter, really, the call had gone straight to voicemail (which had secretly been a relief). Maybe if everything went to plan that night he could get a head start on explaining himself, and if not... well, he'd be dead anyway. 

Michael sat up when the driver's door opened and Carina slipped back behind the wheel, water streaming from her plastic poncho. She pulled back her hood and slipped her headset into her ear, handing Michael his. Then she reached for the keys in the ignition, starting the SUV without trouble. Michael didn't miss the way the older woman was avoiding looking at him. 

“We good?” 

Carina only glanced at him, “Yeah, we're good.” 

“C,” Michael warned. 

“B's already in, we can't turn back now,” Carina said, that south of the border accent pouring through. 

“Oh-ho, yes we can,” Michael insisted, “If he doesn't _do_ anything, we can.” 

Carina stared hard at Michael, the lights from the dash lighting her face enough for him to see that fire that had caught him back at the studio. “It's now or never, M, and never doesn't end well for us.” 

_Shit_ , Michael sighed, something sinking in his chest, “You owe me.” 

Carina smiled, “I know,” then backed the car out of the alley and onto the streets, headlights on low.

Oh yeah, Michael was fucked. 

… 

_Five Days Later..._

Trevor did not own a cat. 

At least he didn't think he owned a cat. 

Was the cat even there? 

Granted, Trevor wasn't even sure if _he_ was currently real. The last thing he remembered clearly was Chef coming over with a fresh batch for tasting, then Wade had shown up, then Ron, then some lumberjack, then maybe the cat. Or was that a raccoon? All he knew was that there had been some screaming and a flaming broom. Then nothing. Then today. Though that only explained the fuzzy, drained feeling that tingled through his limbs, and the pounding in his head - not the judgmental little shit looking down on him from the kitchen counter. 

And if there was one thing Trevor Phillips was not fond of (on top of many other things), it was judgmental little shits. 

“The fuck are you looking at?” Trevor growled, his eyes narrowing and his lip lifting in a snarl. The damn thing only narrowed its eyes back, “Well nobody fucking asked you!” 

Mr. _Fuckface_ didn't seem to take kindly to being yelled at, and stretched for an absurd amount of time before leaping over Trevor and trotting for the bedroom. The cheek! 

With a growl, Trevor rolled himself onto his stomach, having every intention of going after the feline home invader, when he realized that the pounding in his head was mostly a pounding on the door. Could he not get a moment of Peace? 

“Go away, Ron!” 

“Fuck you Trevor Phillips!” Not Ron, “Open this fucking door!” Most definitely not Ron. In fact, that sounded an awful lot like- 

_Amanda?_ Trevor mouthed to himself. Was he still high? No, no gnome humping the couch leg... Then what... 

Pushing off the floor, Trevor had to catch hold of the kitchen counter as the world righted itself. He quickly checked that he was wearing pants (he'd been warned one too many times about that), found some kind of candy striped jogging shorts that obviously weren't his, but judging by the fact Amanda somehow made her knocking sound as grating as her personality, he doubted he had time to change. He didn't really want to anyway. 

Trevor turned for the door, almost falling into it, then hoping he hadn't actually peed himself earlier, he did as the lady asked and swung it open. 

Although he hadn't meant to almost headbutt dear Mrs. De Santa, it amused him to no end to see her sent reeling back in repulsion and straight into the rail. If Trevor was honest - he was always honest - he wouldn't have minded seeing her fake tits go over, but he had at one point promised Mike he wouldn't be anymore antagonistic towards the woman than he had to be. How either of them measured that limit, however, had never been discussed. 

Trevor straightened himself, then leaned against the door frame to combat one hell of a dizzy spell. Meanwhile, Amanda just stood there, her hand suspiciously hovering over her purse while Trevor eyed her up. 

“Amanda, Mandy, my main Mand, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Trevor lowered his voice suggestively, “Does Michael know you're here?”

“Ugh, what is wrong with you?” Ah, the plastic princess, “How can you even live in this dump? What am I saying.”

“That's not very fair of you, Amanda,” Trevor pouted, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “Why, if you had only called first, I might have had Ron clean the corpse out from under the stairs.” 

At this, both of them looked to the floorboards of the small porch. It hit him that neither of them knew if he was joking or not. 

Amanda pinched the bridge of her nose with a small sigh, then actually looked Trevor in the eyes, “I don't care, okay. I just want to know where Michael is.” 

Trevor frowned, “Mikey?” 

“Yeah, you know, my husband, your 'best friend', the man you keep dragging away from me, and into your – _crazy_ shit!” 

“Ohh, that Michael,” Trevor looked contemplative for a moment before he shrugged, “Nope, haven't seen him,” then slammed the door in Amanda's face. 

Christ, that woman was annoying. She _would_ drive two hours just to bitch at him, all because Michael probably couldn't keep it in his pants. Honestly, those two. If they weren't fighting, they were making up so they could at least get laid before they fought again. Then they pushed their misery on everyone else. So no, he hadn't seen Michael. In fact, he hadn't seen anyone outside of Sandy Shores for well over a week. That fuck hadn't even called, or texted him since that Halloween fiasco.

...Huh. 

Trevor reached for his phone from where he had tossed it on the couch before Chef's arrival however-many-days-ago. 

_I mean_ , he thought, _it wasn't that bad_. If anything, it was a damn success. He vividly remembered Michael being doubled over in hysterics. Oh sure, maybe Amanda chewed him out later, but that shouldn't have been enough to keep Michael from texting him at least. Well, there was the crystal. Maybe he just hadn't registered the noise.

Turning on the phone, Trevor quickly shifted through his apps, finding not a single new notification. Weird. Even if Michael hadn't called him, the last year had proved busy for TP Inc., especially with their new cash flow, new territory, new competition - the stupid thing was almost always going off anymore. Trevor was opening his contacts, quickly sliding down to Michael's name, when his fucking front door was blown off its hinges. 

Being forced to the floor by a flimsy piece of metal had not, in fact, been Trevor's plan for the day. But what would you know, he hadn't even had breakfast. So when he very calmly, and very collectively, picked himself up off the floor, he was very, very certain that someone was about to change that. Of course, it couldn't be some irate customer in his now completely open doorway, or even some unfortunate police officer. No, it had to be the one and only lovely Mrs. Amanda Townley. Former stripper, Mother-wannabe, and apparent martial artist, because he'd be damned if she wasn't lowering her foot in surprise. OH, _she_ was surprised?

“What the fuck, Amanda?!” 

That awe quickly morphed to outrage, however, “Me? What is your door made out of, cardboard?” 

“It's quality. American. Steel!” 

“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes, “I'll pay for it.” 

Trevor looked down right disgusted, “I don't want you to pay for it, I want you not to have not done it – oh, oh, and there goes the cat!” 

Amanda looked confused as she watched the little critter slink pass her, “I didn't know you had a cat.” 

“I don't anymore, now do I?” 

“Maybe you should have answered me-” 

In one simple step he was towering over her, because enough was enough, and he had long ago mastered that eery boiling calm of his. To Amanda's credit, she didn't back down, though something imperceptible entered her eyes. When Trevor spoke, he spoke very carefully, “I already told you,” he said, “I don't know where little Mikey ran off to. Did you check the whore dens? All of them? Because usually fucking a set of tits bigger and faker than yours helps him get over the regret of having bought the last pair.” 

A tense silence settled over the trailer. The two just stared at each other, breathing. Amanda seemed to be searching for something in Trevor's face, but whatever she found there caused her to take a step back. Trevor thought she might start crying then, she certainly looked it, or yell at him, or do something that would get Michael mad at him, because he was pretty sure he just pushed his limit. 

Amanda didn't do any of that though, which was sort of making Trevor uncomfortable, and unless he wanted to stalk off to the bedroom he didn't exactly have a way out. Fortunately, Amanda finally decided to speak. 

“You think,” she began, and Trevor heard the tears before he saw them, “You think I'd drive all the way out here, to _you_ , to yell, at _you_ , for Michael's whore mongering? Never mind that we've been good, but honestly, you think I would voluntarily put myself in your company, Trevor? Look at us, no.” 

Amanda took another step back, shaking her head, “Neither I nor the kids have heard from Michael in four fucking days, not a single fucking thing, and you think I'm out here because he was wearing some hooker's perfume? Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck everything about you. Since day fucking one you've been a fucking nightmare.” 

Four days? Trevor knelt down to pick his phone off the floor where it'd been knocked.

Amanda could have kept going, but Trevor hadn't really heard past that. Instead he had opted to look down his contacts until the highlight was sitting over Michael's name. He pressed dial and put the device to his ear. There was that dumb familiar jingle, and Trevor watched as Amanda pulled the blue cased iFruit from her purse. She waved it a little so he could see his name and picture plastered across the screen, before she made a show of pressing the green accept button and answered it. 

“Hey,” she echoed through. 

Trevor sneered, hanging up. 

Four days. 

Four fucking days.

“What do you mean, four days?” 

“You really haven't seen him?” At his look, she held her hands up, “Okay, okay, I just... Well I wasn't hoping he was holed up with you, but if you two had gotten into some trouble, at least I'd know where he is. 

“Anyway, the last I saw Michael was Thursday night. He had some kind of emergency at the studio,” Amanda stalled Trevor's question, “Yes, I already looked there. I'm not an idiot.” 

Trevor sighed through his nose, _Too easy_. He ran a hand down his face. _That fat fuck_. 

“Look,” Amanda started, wrapping her arms around herself, “You and I, we don't like each other. We never have, but god help us, we've put up with some shit for Michael. He might have gotten into some trouble, and for once left us out of it. If that's the case... Just let me know if you hear anything, okay? I'm not asking much.” 

_No_ , Trever thought, _but you knew exactly what you were doing coming here._ Since obviously the police were out of the question. 

Trevor cursed, and Amanda fully backed off, easing her way down the porch steps when he swung out the doorway and shouted, “RON!” 

Almost as if he had been waiting for it, the door to the neighboring trailer banged open, the scrawny man in a bucket hat wincing against the sunlight. 

“Ron, you miserable excuse for a living, breathing creature,” Trevor stepped out onto the porch, “You haven't fixed my fucking door yet, have you.” 

“I-I'm real sorry about that T," Ron squinted in Trevor's vague direction, "I didn't even know it was broken-” 

“No excuses!” Trevor slammed his fist against the side of his trailer, “Now find me some pants." Trevor turned to head inside, but poked his head back out, "And some cat food.” 

Amanda didn't follow him in. She didn't need to. She had gotten what she came for.

Now, he had a snake to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Chapter Title: Cats, Meth, and Tits.


	2. Family Gathering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank You to everyone for showing interest, and letting me know you liked the first chapter - here's hoping the rest follow through! Onward!

"Ow," Jimmy hissed, his cry preceding the telltale clang of a wrench drop. Franklin did his best to hide his laughter, but in a mostly empty garage sound tended to carry, "Oh, real rich, bro."

"Man, don't break my cars," Franklin warned jokingly, as he scanned over the exposed engine of a blue and yellow Stanier.

Some of the Downtown cabs were overdue for maintenance, the one he was working on in particular had been making a disconcerting sputtering noise for the last week. When it had finally begun to smoke, Franklin had ordered the cars in for routine inspections. Unfortunately, with the holiday season fast approaching, Raul and the drivers were either overworking or cashing in their vacation; and while Jimmy De Santa was a fast learner, he was hardly an expert mechanic.

This found Franklin falling to the rank of manager, a job that was infinitely more hands-on than the usual VIP pickup – though it was something he didn't actually mind. Signing paychecks and pushing papers certainly kept the cash flowing, but sometimes a man just needed grease under his nails.

Besides, Jimmy could've done with the company.

"Your car is the one doing the breaking, bro. Like, all on my face," Jimmy said from under the cab next to Frank's, "And by that, I mean it's practically raining brake fluid down here. Don't tell me you're actually paying to keep this thing on the road?"

"Hey, car's got character," Frank explained, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Yeah, it's a total asshole."

"You're one to talk!"

Jimmy cursed with another clang, while Franklin turned, surprised, to find Tracey coming through the open garage doors, two brown paper bags in hand. She held them up in way of an explanation, smiling brightly when their eyes met, "I thought I'd, like, bring you guys lunch?"

"Appreciate it," Frank said, watching her move past him to place the parcels on the workbench to his right. He couldn't help but follow her hand as she pulled her ponytail out of her hoodie's collar, fingers trailing along her neck. When Tracey turned around, however, her knowing look said she had been expecting a lapse in willpower.

"That better be some Cluckin' Bell I smell," Jimmy called out, "And not that shit mom's got me on."

Moment over, Tracey rolled her eyes, "I'm not gonna help you cheat, Jimmy. They serve salads too."

"I knew this family was out to kill me," Jimmy grumbled.

Despite the kid's first impression, Jimmy had turned out to be a fairly decent employee – especially since Michael had made it very clear that his first job would not be at Richards Majestic. Apparently, the former bank robber also thought Franklin, the former gang-banger, might be a good influence on his son, give Jimmy a taste of the working class or some shit. What he probably had not counted on, however, was his _daughter's_ influence.

Looking at them, it was hard to believe that only a few months ago the pair had been sat awkwardly across from each other at a De Santa family dinner. A few furtive glances and glasses of wine changed that, however, and Tracey was sneaking her number into Franklin's pocket before he was taxied home. From there it had been one tentative step after another, the two understandably cautious of certain father figures. Even with the tiptoeing, though, the two anticipated each others company, finding a set of unlikely similarities between them. And yeah, neither of them were perfect, but they were working, and Tracey had begun to look at Franklin in a way he had missed being looked at.

"You come just for the food?" Frank asked.

"Maybe," Tracey teased, "Maybe I missed my baby brother, and like, you know, wanted to say hi."

"Don't blame me if I don't believe you," Franklin said lowly, and Tracey fidgeted coyly. He couldn't help the small grin that gave him. "So how you been?"

Tracey's face immediately fell, and Franklin could have smacked himself. He already knew the answer to that. The young woman had called him, in tears, just the other day. He had spent the whole night with her on the phone. Fortunately, Tracey just toyed with her hoodie ties.

What she said though, caught Frank's attention, "Mom went to see Trevor today."

Franklin rose away from the cab, listening, "Any luck?"

"I dunno," Tracey shrugged, "She hasn't texted me back. You haven't heard anything, yet, have you? Like, even a little?"

"I told you I'd call if anything came up," He moved closer to her, "I've got people looking out, but..."

Tracey nodded, taking a shaky breath, so Franklin reached out and rubbed her arm comfortingly, not missing the way she leaned into his touch. The last couple days had been a wreck for the De Santa family.

Michael had gone out, but he hadn't come back.

Nobody had been too concerned at first (this not being the first time work had kept him from home), but as their calls went unanswered, worry had quickly set in. Things had only gone downhill when the sedan was found in the studio's back lot, keys in the glove compartment, phone under the seat. Security hadn't reported any signs of foul play, so the panic was put on hold. At least until nobody could get in touch with Trevor Phillips, that was.

Franklin had gone straight to Lester after Tracey's call, and over the last thirty-six hours the two had started some unofficial search. Any leads they had managed to dig up, however, had a very short life. There was just no trail to follow, and until someone stepped forward, there was nothing to be done. With every hour that passed in silence, Franklin knew their chances of finding Michael unscathed were getting slimmer and slimmer.

Though that wasn't something he was about to tell the man's daughter.

"Hey," Franklin said softly, and Tracey looked up, "Your dad's a tough dude, we'll find him."

Tracey smiled, knowing his words were a mere placation, but appreciating them nonetheless. Franklin brought his hand up to cup her cheek affectionately, running his thumb along her cheekbone. She grabbed his wrist in return, then pulled him down so she could place a gentle a kiss at the corner of his mouth, whispering a "Thank You," before she stepped back.

Tracey glanced quickly to make sure Jimmy hadn't seen, not exactly being one for forethought. Then she started back towards the doors, "I, like, really hate to go, but I, uh, got a class to get to."

"Oh! Sure, sure, naw, I gotch you," Franklin waved her off, his voice struggling back to casual, "And thanks for lunch. Yo, as soon as I know something I'll hit you up, okay?"

Tracey nodded, "Okay – Bye Jimmy!" There was a muted reply, then she waved another silent farewell to Franklin and turned for the parking lot. He watched her go until she was out of sight, admiring the way she moved. Perhaps that hadn't been the best course of action, which Frank discovered very shortly.

"You know," Jimmy began, suddenly beside him (maybe making him jump), "If you don't want my dad to shoot you after we find him, you two might want to tone it down a bit."

"Fuck man," Franklin breathed, recovering from the scare. He probably looked guilty as charged, too, though that didn't stop him, "What you talking about?"

"I'm talking," Jimmy stepped in front of him, "about that thing you got going with my sister."

"What thing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, where you not just staring at her ass like some lost piece of art?"

"I'm a dude, what do you expect?"

"For you to respect her," Jimmy pointed out, "Like, as a person, not just something to warm your dick."

"Hey!"

"But you weren't looking at her like that," Jimmy explained, "You forget that my parents are still together, I know what love looks like. Even if it is a little hard to see sometimes. And uncomfortable."

No, Franklin hadn't forgotten, but love was a strong word for someone who hadn't been in a serious relationship for a long time.

Fortunately, Jimmy misinterpreted his silence, "Relax, bro, I'm not disapproving or anything. I mean, trust me, if anything, I'm looking out for _you_. Besides, I respect you. So I guess, if she had to pick someone, I'm glad it's my boss, slash former car thief, slash kinda brother."

"Thanks," Franklin said, not sure if that sounded as sarcastic to Jimmy as it did to him.

"No problem," Apparently not, "I'm gonna warn ya though: You two have got to work on that secretive part of your secret. Because seriously, I was about to barf all over this place."

"Well thanks for not doing that," Franklin knew the cat had to come out of the bag eventually, but he had pictured that conversation with an entirely different De Santa, "Man, we don't mean to sneak around, anyway. We just weren't sure how your dad was gonna take it, considering how we all got associated in the first place."

"Oh, he will not take it well," Jimmy assured, "Trust me, I've seen some shit I really did not need to see because of how my dad 'took' Tracey's boyfriends."

Franklin stared at him, and Jimmy replayed what he just said in his head, "That... came out so wrong - but that's besides the point. You two have got to bring it down, like stat. I like you bro, I don't wanna see you wake up naked, hanging sixty feet above the city on a crane hook with your dick glued to your belly."

 _Shit, man_ , Franklin put a hand to his stomach protectively, "Michael really do that?"

"No, but Uncle T did," Jimmy pointed at him as he backed away, grabbing the bag that was most grease laden off the bench before he disappeared into the garage office behind it.

Franklin felt a little vulnerable standing there, reconsidering a few of his recent life choices. Because, _Damn_ , "No wonder she was single."

Tracey had brought him lunch though, and if the smell of Cluckin' Bell wasn't a cure all for any ailment, especially those of the heart, Franklin didn't know what was.

About to follow after Jimmy, Franklin halted when his pocket vibrated. He hadn't been expecting any calls, so he took his time pulling the phone out, or at least he did until he saw who was supposedly on the other end.

Frank quickly pressed accept, and answered, "T, man, where you been?"

There was a grunt before the sound of angry traffic came through, then the faint voice of Trevor Phillips yelling into the wind, "It's not my fault you're color blind!" then much, much clearer, "Frank!"

"Trevor?"

"Where are ya?"

"East V. Man, look," Franklin faced away from the open office, "Michael with you? Fam's been looking for him."

"No," Trevor replied irritably, "And no, I haven't seen Mikey either. Haven't heard from him, haven't anything, alright?"

"Alright, dude, chill-"

"I'll _chill_ when people stop asking me questions I've already answered," Trevor cursed over the squealing of tires, "And what-what-what about you, huh? Aren't you two practically neighbors?"

"Don't mean I see the man every day," Franklin hadn't missed the accusation, "In case you haven't heard, I have a few businesses to run. I'm legitimate now, and I got a girl to take care of. I can't help it if I've been busy."

"Busy? You know that's just fucking typical, isn't it," Trevor growled, "American elitism at its finest. Get a little money, get a little noteworthy, and everything just goes to your fucking head. Starting to fit right in with the Viper-wood crowd now, aren't ya?"

"Man, fuck you. Michael's your life, not mine."

"What-fucking-ever," _What was up his ass?_ , "Get to Lester's before I do, and bring some fucking balls." The call dropped before Franklin got a chance to respond, forcing the young man to try and keep himself from smashing his phone against the ground.

Agitation was one of Trevor's default states of existence, especially when it came to a certain long term relationship. Having been exposed to it often enough, though, Franklin had thought he had built up some sort of tolerance. That might have just been because Trevor's attitude was generally pointed towards someone else. Standing on the other side of it, however, and Franklin started to understand why someone would risk disembowelment for a chance of one satisfying swing at the man.

"That Uncle T?"

Franklin looked up to find Jimmy standing in the office doorway, probably having heard his entire end of the conversation. "Yeah," he sighed.

"He know where my dad is?"

"No," Franklin rubbed his neck, looking back down at his phone, _Damn_ , "Hey, I gotta go meet up with his angry ass, you gonna be okay by yourself?"

"Yeah, bro, you gotta go, you gotta go. I can hold shop."

"Alright, cool," Franklin headed over to the table for his lunch, and Jimmy got him his keys. As Jimmy handed them over, Franklin told him, "If you feel like you can't handle it, close up and go help with dispatch."

Jimmy just rolled his eyes, an action that seemed a family favorite, "I told you, dog, I got it. Go."

"Alright," Franklin placated, then moved to leave, but paused. Thinking for a moment, he turned back to face Jimmy, "Look, man, Trevor's gotta know something. I'll call you as soon as I know too."

Jimmy didn't say anything, and Frank didn't wait for him to.


	3. Mixed Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are gonna be a bit longer from here on out. Thanks for reading!

There was no telling how far out Trevor was, Franklin just counted himself lucky that the street in front of the small city home was empty. That didn't stop him from bouncing nervously on Lester's doorstep as he waited for the man behind the cameras to open the door. The little click of the lock disengaging was a little sweeter sounding than Frank would admit, and he pushed through the main hall, heading straight for the bedroom. Before he could even open his mouth, however, Lester waved him off.

“Yes, yes I know,” Lester hadn't bothered turning around, eyes glued on the screens in front of him, “Trevor is on his way, and he's on his way fast. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can tell him.”

“That facial thing still running?”

“Running? Yes,” This time Lester did turn around, his face not easing Franklin's nerves, “Functioning? Barely. I just don't have the hardware-” A bang from the hallway interrupted him, and Lester threw an exasperated hand up, “Our guest of honor.”

Trevor came fuming around the corner, denim jacket and t-shirt ruffled to add to an already unhinged look. He completely ignored Franklin, going right for Lester, who startled enough to back into his desk. Trevor didn't stop until he was practically on top of the trapped man, supporting himself with the handles of Lester's wheelchair. Franklin stood tense behind them, his hand hovering near Trevor's shoulder should he be needed.

The two silently challenged each other, nose to nose.

“I'm gonna ask you a question, and if you fucking lie to me, Crest,” Trevor growled, “I will make sure you never leave that fucking chair, you got me?” Lester nodded, and so did Trevor, “Did you and Michael work a job?”

Lester stared hard at him, unwavering, “No.”

Trevor held their gaze for a moment longer before he pulled away, cursing, running his hands frustratedly through his hair as Franklin moved to Lester's side, “You okay?”

Lester nodded an affirmative. They watched as Trevor forced in a deep breath, then let it out slowly before he turned back to them, seemingly calmer.

“Okay,” Trevor clapped his hands, “So who has what?”

“Before we get into that,” Lester stalled, “I hope you won't mind me asking where exactly you've been these last few days?”

Trevor shrugged, “What does it matter?”

“Both you and Mike went off the grid about the same time,” Franklin explained.

“You'll forgive us, I'm sure, if that led to some wild speculation,” Lester finished.

“I was away on business,” Trevor looked nonplussed, but fidgeted under their scrutiny.

Lester narrowed his eyes, “What sort of business?”

“Company business, look, you're drilling the wrong guy here,” Trevor vaguely motioned towards Frank, “I've been in Sandy Shores since the parade.”

“And Michael didn't contact you?” Franklin winced at the hacker's question, and rightly so, because Trevor's lips thinned with his patience, “No.”

“Alright, he didn't mean anything by it,” Franklin intervened, “We gotta narrow our, uh, our time frame?”

“So you've been searching, have you?”

“Yeah, we have,” Again with the accusations, “For like two days now, you know, when the family figured out Michael wasn't coming back from that studio meeting.”

“A meeting, mind you,” Lester said, “None of the other crew remember having.”

Trevor waved his hand about, trying to get his thought out, “That place is covered in cameras, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Now Lester seemed to be on edge, “In fact, Mr. Richards was kind enough to hand the files over to Franklin. Unfortunately, the only thing notable from what they had was what we already knew,” Lester turned back to the row of monitors, pulling up a file on the center one. He double clicked it and a video started, showing the grainy image of Michael's Tailgater pulling into the studio lot before the man of the hour got out and headed up the steps of the main building, looking directly into the camera as he did so.

Lester sped the footage up, the time stamp progressing almost forty-eight hours before he slowed it down again, and eventually stopped when Jimmy came into view, checking out the car.

“He doesn't pop up anywhere else after that,” Lester sighed, “Michael probably left his phone intentionally, so we couldn't trace him.”

Trevor growled at this tidbit, but Lester stopped him, “I know what you're thinking, and it's highly unlikely.”

“Reptiles shed their skin, not their nature,” Trevor stated.

“They also tend to take their fortunes with them, but low and behold!” Lester pulled up another window on the same screen, the Maze Bank's emblem blazoned in the corner, "Not so much as a coffee purchased after Michael filled up his gas tank a full day before his disappearance.

“Besides,” Lester continued, “You know Michael, he never shuts up about his family. He wouldn't just leave them. Us? Sure, throw us under a bus in a heartbeat, but not them.”

Trevor was pacing by then, in a fight to steady his temper, “When I get my hands on that slimy fuck-”

“Don't say things you're gonna regret,” Lester warned.

“Fucking watch me!”

“Alright,” Franklin interrupted, wondering if all middle aged men got on like this. Trevor didn't seem to like the intervention, but he just asked, “How do we find him?”

“At the moment? We don't,” Lester sounded tired, relaxing back in his chair, “There's absolutely no way to track him without his phone, it's not like I have him chipped.”

“Yo, I know a vet who could probably do that for us,” Franklin offered, making Lester laugh.

“Yeah, throw in some sedatives while we're at it,” Lester shook his head, “Okay, boys, there's really not much for us to go on until this search is done.”

“What search?” Trevor leaned forward, as if the answer was already on display.

“Scanning traffic cams and whatnot for Michael's face,” Franklin said, “At least all the ones we can get remote access to.”

“What?”

“Facial recognition software, courtesy of the F.I.B.,” Lester explained. The tool had been one of the many treats recovered from the Bureau’s database oh so long ago.

“Sounds useful.”

“It is,” Lester agreed, “Right up until you want to use it for anything outside a shopping mall, or a sports stadium. Unfortunately, Michael's got a generic look to him, tends to blend in with a crowd. Couple that with any number of routes he could have taken after leaving the studio, and you're looking at days worth of pictures to sift through."

“What about the studio's footage?” Trevor ventured, earning an unseen eyeroll from Lester.

“Already went through it, remember?”

“Yeah, but did ya consider to look for someone other than Mikey?”

Lester paused, knowing it a sore day if Trevor Phillips was out thinking him, "What do you mean?"

"Well, despite my best efforts, he doesn't get out much. His couch and that house of horrors are just about the only places he visits on his own."

"You're thinking Michael met with someone. Franklin and I had the same idea, but with dozens of cast and crew-" Lester's eyes lit up and he quickly opened a folder, the files all titled after dates and times and locations. He started scrolling through them, sliding some onto the desktop to check out in a moment. Trevor muttered a, "Finally," then stayed quiet for once, taking a step back as he watched Lester work.

Franklin didn't know exactly what was going down, but he had read the mood shift and wanted to be sure, "You got something?"

Lester shushed him and shooed him off, “Just give me a moment, would you.”

The young man obliged, actually knowing when not to push, and hung back. Yet, there was no missing the quiet tension rolling off of Trevor next to him, despite the mask of calm that he'd donned, and it made Franklin itch. He understood the situation was tight, but the man was wound to the point of breaking, and break he would, Frank was sure of that.

Maybe it was the anticipation of that outburst that caused Franklin's lapse in judgement.

Or maybe he just felt like he needed to do something.

He tried to keep his voice low as he asked, “Hey, T, are you sure Michael didn't try to contact you?”

A consideration Trevor didn't share, “For fuck's sake, YES!” The man pulled his phone out of his jeans and shoved it into Frank's chest – who had to move quick not to drop it, “Take a fucking look for yourself if you want. Honestly.” Had everyone gone deaf? Or stupid.

“Dude, you missed a call.”

Trevor's mental rant stalled in its tracks, “What?”

“You got a voice mail,” Frank repeated, becoming the second person that afternoon to wave a screen in his face.

Trevor snatched the phone back, staring hard at the little notification he had somehow missed. Although he hadn't missed it, he had _dismissed_ it at some point in his haze, ensuring that little asterisk wouldn't pop up. Opening his call history he found a number he didn't recognize.

That wasn't right.

“Man, you think-”

“Shut up,” Trevor dialed the service, putting the phone to his ear. The electronic woman on the other side asked for his PIN which he jabbed in quickly, tapping his foot as the stupid machine went through its paces, “One Message received. Thursday, November 6th, 7:04 PM.”

There was a beep, and then Trevor's heart went very still.

“Hey T, it's M.”

He turned away from the others, every inch of him focused on the shaky voice on the other end.

“Yeah, no shit it's me,” Michael grumbled, then sighed, “Fuck me, bro, I'm in it this time. I mean I'm _really_ in it, T. In fact, I'm about to do something so fucking stupid that I honestly can't believe you're not here beside me... Look, I got a bad feeling about this, and you know how that goes. So, if I don't get to you before this message does, don't. Do. Anything. I mean it. Just, let it go. You and I both know I'm not worth it, and these people, they don't fuck around. Trust me on this."

_Trust._

There was a moment of silence where Trevor could hear rain on glass. Then Michael took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose, “Alright, T. I'll see you on the other side.”

There was a final beep before the machine returned, “End of message.”

Trevor lowered the phone and stared at it, silent.

The other two remained quiet, the thickening air had temporarily choked their questions.

After a moment, Franklin made the first move, “Was it Michael?”

Trevor looked at him from the corner of his eye, “Yeah.”

“What'd he say?”

“What did he say?” Trevor turned to fully face Franklin as though he hadn't quite heard him, “What did he fucking say? I'll tell you what he said.”

The phone exploded against the wall next to Franklin's head, and when he looked up Trevor was moving in. He instinctively reached for the pistol tucked in his belt, but Trevor was too close too quick, “He didn't say SHIT, THAT'S WHAT HE FUCKING SAID!”

Trevor flinched violently away from Franklin with a low keen, hunching in on himself, before he abruptly straightened and punched a box off a shelf as he removed himself from the room.

He stumbled down the hallway and out the front door, not quite sure if he was screaming the _FUCKFUCKFUCK_ racing through his mind, because _FUCK_.

Trevor turned when he hit the doorstep, then moved away just as quickly, gripping the air in frustration, needing something under his hands, something warm, and alive, and breakable, and _Fuck you Michael_ , “Shit!”

Trevor marched down the walkway onto the road, picking up a discarded 2x4 on the way. He rallied his rage and swung it hard against the side of the small street garage. The wood snapped on impact, sending a good chunk back towards Trevor, who didn't have time to dodge before it bounced off his right eye.

“Fuck,” Trevor cursed, dropping the makeshift bat as he fell into a squat, hand pressed tight against the cut opening on his brow. He stayed there, the warm trickle down his arm and face enough of a distraction to keep him from thinking – and right then, thinking was not in his best interest.

Trevor was not stupid. Rash, yes, Impulsive? Definitely, but he wasn't stupid. He knew the numbers, he had run them through the moment Amanda had opened her big mouth, but he had obstinately discarded the outcome. Rejecting reality never sat well with him, however, and it had just been shoved wholeheartedly in his face, hadn't it?

Because Michael was dead.

Again.

Probably.

He didn't know, and he hated not knowing. Ignorance grounded you, took away your ability to act and left you in the corner like an abandoned dog. And that's what he was, wasn't he? Loyal to a fault, too forgiving, too everything, because of one stupid, selfish asshole that had gone and left him. _Abandoned_ him, again.

Well, fuck Michael, and his bloated corpse, wherever the fuck it was. What did he care.

 _Fuck_.

There were hesitant footfalls from behind, and he smelled the motor oil before Franklin spoke, “Man, what did you do?”

Trevor sniffled, “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh,” Franklin didn't sound convinced. He walked around so he could see Trevor's face, bending over to examine the blood running down the length of the man's arm. He hissed in sympathy, “Fuck, dude, shit looks like it hurts.”

“Yeah,” Trevor scowled, “That's because it does.”

Franklin shook his head, unfazed with Trevor visibly calmer. He jerked his head to towards the house, “C'mon, that might need stitches.”

“So?” Trevor asked, but stood up anyway.

“So,” Franklin started up the steps, “I bet Lester's got some stuff for that, and you've met Lamar, I've patched up my fair share of scrapes.”

Trevor seemed to follow a bit reluctantly, but Franklin heard the smile creeping back into his voice, “Sorry to disappoint you, homie, but I don't play doctor until the second date.”

...

Franklin found it hard to believe they weren't in an actual hospital, what with how immaculate Lester's bathroom turned out to be. The small space off the main hallway stunk with bleach and had a creepy, surreal sort of mental ward feel going on. Every single surface was scrubbed white, even the plunger looked clean enough to eat out of. Though he wasn't about to test that.

“Why don't you take a seat, man,” Franklin said, directing Trevor to the toilet, who sat down without complaint.

Lester had said the kit was under the sink, but had failed to mention that there were about ten thousand other items piled in there like some nightmare of a Tetris game. Fortunately, the white box was front and center, and with some careful easing, Franklin got it out. He propped it open on the sink's edge while Trevor wiped his face and arm with an appropriated washcloth.

Franklin quickly found some antiseptic wipes, and a dry bandage. He turned to Trevor, who titled his head up expectantly, and began to clean the cut. Trevor barely winced, and as Franklin staunched the bleeding he figured it was a good a time as any to start prodding.

“About that voice mail,” Trevor tensed, but didn't pull away, “You gonna share, or...?”

“Or,” Trevor said.

Franklin frowned, “Look, T-”

“I meant what I said,” Trevor warned, “He didn't say shit – just...” Trevor adverted his gaze, fidgeting his leg, “Just some stupid goodbye thing, I guess. I don't know, okay?! It was weird.”

“Weird how?”

“What is this, 20 questions?”

“I hope not, I wasn't much good at that game.”

Trevor grunted.

They were quiet for a bit, and Franklin dabbed away the last of the blood. He hoped Trevor didn't actually need stitches. Like he had said, he was used to patching up scrapes, and by that he had meant skinned knees and anything you could slap a band-aid on. Anything more, and it usually meant an awkward trip to the emergency room. The cut didn't look too bad, though it had bled like all head wounds bleed, but that had basically stopped. The only problem really was it's length, which was just a little over an inch. He didn't think an adhesive bandage was going to do the trick. 

When Franklin went back to the kit to see what he had to work with, he stumbled upon a tube of skin glue. He didn't think long on Lester's resourcefulness, though, as he quickly read the instructions and began to apply it to Trevor's forehead, his petulant patient giving him a dirty look. Franklin ignored him, holding the cut shut (having seen the glue used once before when Lamar had gotten drunk and chased Chop through 8 panes of glass). When he was sure it would hold on its own, he stuck a bandage on for good measure, then stood back. 

Trevor followed him up and looked into the mirror, finding blood on his collar.

“Your eye gonna be shinier than the rest of your head soon,” Franklin joked.

“Hardy harr,” Trevor leaned in close to examine the damage, the skin around his eye already starting to puff up and discolor. Still, Franklin hadn't done too bad of a job with the cut, it barely even stung.

“Shoulda been a nurse,” Trevor mumbled absently.

“That's what my Aunt used to say,” Franklin agreed, snapping the kit closed, “Only, she didn't stop there: 'Coulda been a lawyer, 'coulda been a sports star, a teacher, a surgeon, 'coulda been anything but what you are, boy,” Franklin mocked, his voice high in imitation. His aunt had made it her mission to be unsatisfied no matter what, even when Franklin did pull ahead in the end. Her approval was never anything he had sought, but he would have liked for her to respect him, to admit her sister's son was anything more than worthless.

“Hey, F.”

Franklin looked up to find Trevor staring at him, and for once he didn't feel like squirming.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, man,” Frank brushed him off. “You know that.”

“No, I know, but I mean it, and...” Trevor rolled his shoulders, “I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry?”

“Ehhh,” Trevor was rarely at a loss for words, but then again, that whole day was playing odd, “I... shouldn't have snapped. It's just... you know?”

Franklin nodded, “Yeah, I know. Don't sweat it, dog, we're good. You might wanna apologize to Lester, though.”

“Yeaaah, no,” Trevor smiled, then held his arms open, “Hug?”

Franklin laughed, “Man, neither of us needs to stink anymore than we already do.”

“Point taken,” Trevor said, rolling out of the bathroom and back towards Lester's bedroom, Franklin in tow.

...

Lester was right where they had left him, the remains of Trevor's phone cobbled back together on the desk, a cord running from it to the computers.

“Are we all done with our little hissy fits?” Lester snapped.

“That depends on you, buddy,” Trevor declared, jarring Lester when he grabbed the back of the seat.

“Just don't break anything else,” Lester dislodged him by rolling the chair forward, “You're lucky I could salvage the number that called you, or we'd be without any leads – again.”

“You got a name, then?” Franklin asked.

“Yeah,” Lester scoffed, “Michael. Only it's one of those dinky prepaid things, you know, the kind two-bit drug dealers use. So no, before you ask, there's no GPS to track. However,” Lester dragged a video window up into view, presenting the grainy picture of a red light, and the buildings along the street it covered, “I was able to find the brand and there's only one store near Richards Majestic that sells it."

"Alright, and?" Franklin prompted.

"And, that would have been it, but Mr. Grouchy pants," Trevor sneered at Lester, "Gave me an idea, because while Michael's technically not in the system anymore, it's highly likely whoever he met with is. By narrowing the search to just those going into the offices in the last couple weeks, I was able to get about a dozen names. Mostly misdemeanors and what not, but _this_ little lady," Lester moved another video into view, this one already paused on the front steps of the studio. An older woman, probably in her early fifties, with short dark hair and an expensive pantsuit, was looking directly into the security camera, obviously aware of its presence.

"Oh, she has been bad," Lester cooed, "But exactly how I don't know yet - system hasn't made an exact match. So at the moment, she could be another business partner, or a mistress. Though if _that's_ what this is all about, I will aid you gentlemen to my fullest capacity in teaching Michael a lesson."

“If someone else hasn't beaten us to it, you mean,” Frank said.

“Precisely,” Lester then fast forwarded the footage of the street cam, and Franklin noticed the time stamp of both videos was almost two weeks ago. When Lester stopped, it was to show a white Cabrio pulling up the street, slowing only long enough for an unknown man to get in, before it pulled up to where they could make out the driver. The quality of the image may not have been the best, but the beige pantsuit stuck out against the dark interior.

"That's not a coincidence," Trevor crossed his arm tightly, staring hard at who he hoped would be the next person to make his happy acquaintance.

"No it's not," Lester mumbled, checking the time in the corner of his monitor, “This may take a while, in fact - oh, hello, never mind.”

All eyes turned to the screen on the left, the awaited mugshot of their mystery woman flashing until Lester clicked it. He just sat there quiet afterwards, his eyes glued to the right of the rap sheet where all the basic information was displayed: name, birthday, address at time of arrest, physical description, all of it adding up to one big, big curse that he didn't have the energy to utter. Instead, Lester fell back into his chair with a defeated sigh, “I'm sorry to say boys, but Michael's dead.”

Trevor tensed, “He's not.”

“This our girl?” Franklin interrupted.

“Unfortunately,” Lester said.

“C'mon man, enough with the dramatic shit.”

“I'm not doing it on purpose,” Lester argued, “I'm just trying to wrap my head around all this.”

Lester leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose to combat the headache that was surging forth, full throttle. He really needed a moment.

Nobody had ever labeled Trevor patient, however, “Back to Mikey being dead-”

“Yeah, well, if he isn't, he might as well be,” Lester snapped, then indicated the outdated photo, a young Latino woman with a square set of features looking at the camera in stubborn defiance, “This, this is nobody's grandmother. This is Carina Araceli.”

Franklin waited for the bomb to drop, but neither he nor Trevor reacted, both eventually asking, “Who?”

Lester showed a remarkable amount of willpower by not rolling his eyes, “Honestly, I'm not surprised. She made a name for herself in the Mexican cartel scene in the early 80's, garnering a reputation fearsome enough that it's carried her under the radar for the last thirty years. She only moved North recently, where her biggest known crime seems to be a traffic violation in 2009.

“Now, Mrs. Araceli, today, is technically the simple owner of a small Mexican-American shipping company. They have an office here in Los Santos, but she spends most of her time on her farms in La Ciega – Her very, very successful farms.”

Franklin bites, “What she growin'?”

“Officially? Rice,” Lester looked at them over his shoulder, “Unofficially she's the head of the Madrazo family's coca production.”

“Madrazo,” Trevor banged his fist against the desk, nearly spilling a soda, “I should have sliced that prick's prick while I had the chance.”

“Yes,” Lester glared at him, steadying his drink, “Well, it's a good thing you didn't, or we might be dealing with his turd of a son.”

“Man,” Franklin breathed, “Michael pulled down the wrong fucking house.”

“You can say that again,” Lester leaned in towards his computers, his brain starting to work, “The big question is, what did she want with Michael?”

“Probably another job, right? Like her boss,” Franklin offered.

“Who cares,” Trevor seethed, “She knows something. They met up, didn't they? Let's find her, make her talk. Or better yet, pay another visit to Martin, I've been thinking about that-”

“Are you hungry?” Lester said unexpectedly.

Trevor frowned, caught off guard, “What?”

“Are you hungry?” Lester asked again. 

The fuck was he talking about, "No, I'm not hungry."

“Because you seem cranky. Now, I don't have much in way of food at the moment, so why don't you two order a pizza.” Lester pulled open a nearby box and produced a couple of take-out pamphlets, handing them to Franklin like some parent who had been begged at one too many times. Though if he had thought about it, that probably wasn't too far from the truth.

“You serious?” Franklin asked, honestly confused.

“Yes, I'm serious,” he was also the cranky one, “I have some digging to do, and it's getting crowded in here. Every moment I can't think, is another moment Michael is in the company of a veteran drug lord who likes to hang the people she finds displeasing up by their own entrails – or have we all forgotten this?”

“To be fair,” Trevor pointed out, “You didn't exactly mention that last part.”

“Oh, well, then excuse me,” Lester threw his hands in exasperation, “But your mere presence seems to have an adverse affect on my capacity to coalesce my thoughts. Now, I would like to find Michael, alive, if we can. Something we won't even have a chance at until I can tell you where to go.”

“Alright, man,” Franklin eased, “We'll keep it down.”

“I don't want you quiet, I want you out,” Lester shut them off, shifting his entire focus to the screens in front of him, “I'll call you when I have something.”

...

Eating an entire large pizza by yourself was a surprisingly lonely affair, but Trevor had greened at the mere mention of food, and Franklin had most definitely been hungry, his gifted Cluckin Bell having spoiled in the car. Trevor had not objected to the sugar monstrosity of a Sprunk, however, so while Franklin pulled his fifth slice from the box, Trevor laid sprawled over the hillside steps, slurping noisily from the plastic cup.

It had been almost two hours since they had retreated to the street at Lester's behest, and neither of them had heard a peep from the man. Fortunately, there weren't many people out and about, and though Franklin had to avoid some ants, the Los Santos sun was thankfully obscured by a light overcast. This meant the two could sit in comfortable silence, at least for a little while.

The beat of an incoming call had Franklin pushing the last of his crust in his mouth, licking the grease off his fingers before he answered on speaker, “Yo?”

“I got something,” came Lester's reply, both men sitting up, “No, stay there, this'll just be faster.”

“Whose door we knocking down?” Trevor asked, an eager gleam in his eye.

“Araceli's,” Franklin didn't miss the flash of disappointment that caused for a certain someone, “It seems her and Martin's relationship hit a speed bump last year, they've been civil, but not friendly. I doubt we need to involve him, which is very fortunate for us.”

“Alright,” Franklin prodded, “So how do we get to Araceli?” 

“Any way you can. I've managed to pull a charter for her private jet, seems her pilot submitted a flight plan to an airstrip just outside La Ciega.”

“La Ciega - Okay, where's that?”

Trevor chuckled as Lester answered, “That's where it gets interesting.”

Before anything else could be said, however, Trevor had grabbed Franklin about the shoulders and shook him excitedly, exclaiming, “We're going to Meh-hico, mi amigo!”


	4. Getting There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not fond of this one, but the next chapter shouldn't take too long to get up. As always, thanks for reading.

“Mexico? Like, Mexico Mexico – with like sombreros and shit?” 

“Man, what other Mexico is there?” Franklin tossed a stuffed gym bag at Lamar, nearly toppling his lanky friend. He had called Lamar shortly after Trevor had dismissed him to go pack. Then he had called Tracey and met up with her at the ULSA campus. 

She had seemed hesitant to accept the idea at first (even when he withheld choice details), worried he was chasing some very bad news. After Frank had reexplained the situation, and promised that, yes, he would call her as often as he could, she had relented, asking him to be careful. He had barely pulled out of the university's parking lot when his phone had chimed in a new e-mail. All it contained was the subject line, “To hold you over,” and a picture racy enough to cause the girls at the club to blush. 

Lamar, on the other hand, was having a little trouble getting around the fact that Franklin was for real _leaving_. And not just the state, the country. Like all of it.

“Alright, no need to get snappy,” Lamar pouted, following Franklin up the home steps to the top floor, “You know geometry was never my strongest subject, all them maps and shit.” 

“Dog, that's shapes. Besides, no subject was your strongest subject. Getting in trouble's all you know how to do,” Franklin greeted an awaiting Chop in the living room, nearly getting a face full of slobber when he rubbed the Rottweiler's neck, “You be a good boy, ya hear?” 

“Nigga, why you doing this anyway?” Lamar stood there while Frank got his jacket on, “Ways I see it, you and sneaky dude are more than square, in fact, if anything, homeboy owes you.” 

“Aren't you the one always harping on me about loyalty?” Franklin opened the front door, Chop slipping out to sniff the white van parked in the driveway, before peeing on its tire. 

“Yeah, but sticking up for a brother is a hell of a lot different than chasing some old dude all the way to Mexico. I mean, I know you're fucking his daughter and all, but that pussy can't be _that_ good.” 

“Fuck you,” Franklin pulled the gym bag from Lamar's grip, almost hitting him in the face as he slung it over a shoulder, “You ever stop to wonder why you always gettin' shot at?” 

“Ohh, we gettin' serious now, Nigga?” Lamar teased, “Gonna start playing house, making little homies, baking cookies-” 

“It's not like that.” 

“No, I get it, I get it, it's all good. Bout time you settled your useless ass down anyway, didn't think you'd ever stop doggin' after Tanisha like a bitch in heat,” Never mind that she was happily married, and four months pregnant, _and_ they had settled their relationship a long time ago, “Hey, don't let that white woman name them babies, though. I mean it, dog, don't wanna get stuck picking little Cayleighlyn up from soccer.” 

Franklin ignored him, grabbing the keys from the bowl on the nearby table and offered them for the taking. Lamar looked a little stunned at the gesture, but held out his palm before Franklin dropped them, “Didn't actually think you were serious, nigga.” 

“Man, I gotta do this,” Franklin headed out the door, his house sitter right behind him, “Now, I don't care what you do so long as the place is still standing when I get back.” 

“Alright, alright, I hear ya, but um, like,” Lamar looked back at the mansion uncertainly, “Can I like bring my girl 'round? Treat her to a little somethin' somethin' – know what I mean?” 

Franklin turned to him like he had gone crazy, “Nigga, what you talking about, you don't have a girl.” 

“Naw, man, I told you this already, we met on the internet,” And the last time Lamar had uttered those words, he had been paying for the third woman's vacation flight to Los Santos, “She's flying in tomorrow, from up North, like wayyy north. Barely speaks English.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Franklin said, unconvinced, “Feel free to bring your imaginary girlfriend over. Cook her up some invisible pasta, maybe get fucked up on some real make believe champagne.” 

Lamar put an exaggerated hand to his heart, “Nigga, why you gotta hurt me like that.” 

“Because I know you, Lamar, and I know no girl dumb enough to consider your ass a legitimate opportunity,” Franklin stopped next to Lamar's van, “Keys.” 

Lamar frowned, giving the ring back, and Franklin shoved them back on him, “No, man, to the van.” 

“To the van?” Well, he sounded downright scandalized. 

“I'm not leaving my car at the docks,” Frank explained, his face warning that there would be no negotiations. 

“Oh, but mine's okay? I see how it is.” 

“Ain't nobody gonna try and steal this piece of shit van of yours,” Franklin snatched the proffered keys, unlocking the driver's side door, he tossed the gym bag across the seat before he slipped in. Starting the vehicle up took a couple tries, a little egging on from Lamar, but it got there, albeit worryingly so. Franklin wondered if it wasn't time to gift his friend with something he could really drive, despite the risk of that particular ownership. 

“For real though, homie, watch yourself out there,” Lamar leaned against the open window, sliding his palm along Franklin's into a small fist bump, a gesture that had become second nature to him, “And if you need me, dog, you call me - I gotch you.” 

“Fool, what are you gonna do? Fly three hundred miles to get clapped,” Franklin pulled out onto the street as soon as Lamar stepped back. He shouted out the window, “Hey, send me a picture of that greasy middle aged fuck who's playing you when he shows up, aight?”

“Jealousy don't suit you, nigga,” but Franklin was already down the road, leaving Lamar standing in the drive, Chop at his side. 

… 

Dusk was settling into night when Franklin finally pulled into a parking space by the Puerto Del Sol Marina, double checking to make sure the van was locked up tight despite what he had told Lamar. 

Flying to La Ciega had been struck down almost immediately. If Araceli knew Michael, there was the risk she knew their faces too. Without any secure contacts, going through the airport was a very dumb idea, and any private airstrips would be inaccessible to them. That left driving or boating. Though there really wasn't much of a choice, La Ciega being a port city and all. 

The only problem Franklin could think of with that approach was the booking. While you could hop on a plane with almost no notice, finding passage on a ship without prior reservation was downright impossible. Theirs being a time sensitive mission, Franklin had brought that point to Trevor's attention, but the older man had only said to leave him to it. So Franklin had. 

Coming around the corner of the main building to raised voices, however, and Franklin doubted the wisdom of that plan. 

“I just can't do it, Trevor,” Came an accented voice Frank didn't know.

“Whatever happened to securing your future in the American enterprise?” Unlike that one.

The first voice went off into a string of Spanish just as the small group on the docks came into view. Trevor stood passing for some southern trucker in his work pants and aviators. Next to him stood one of his trailer friends that Franklin thought he recognized, but couldn't find a name, and before them was a considerably frustrated Mexican. 

A small speedboat bobbed in the water off to their side. 

“Oscar says he's-he's almost missing Ortega,” supplied Trevor's friend, causing said Oscar to turn around and jab a hand at him. 

“Would you stop doing that!”

“Hey,” Trevor actually stepped between the two, “Ron is physically incapable of doing anything other than what I tell him to do, that is how helpless he is as a man, and how dedicated he is as an employee. Why, he'd just fall apart if you kept him from doing otherwise. Right Ron?” 

“R-right, boss,” Ron agreed uncertainly. 

“Look what you did!” Trevor gestured towards the afflicted man, “Poor man's shaken just thinking about it.” 

“A-Actually, I'm having a s-slight withdrawal problem, Trevor.” 

“I _pay_ you in meth, Ron,” Trevor looked at him sternly, “What on Earth do you do with it?” 

“We...we smoked it, T, remember?” This seemed to have not occurred to Ron's employer as he paused to consider that possibility. Watching them, Franklin figured himself lucky to have met Trevor through a buffer. Everybody else who had been exposed to that raw personality seemed to have either been scarred or completely dominated by it. From what Frank could tell, only he and Michael came away somewhat intact, and that was scraping on Michael's part. 

Ron never got his answer as Franklin hit the docks, catching Trevor's attention, “Franklin! My favorite hood, almost thought you'd lost your nerve and weren't coming.” 

“Yeah, well, looking at you two, I'm starting to worry I made the wrong choice,” Franklin held his hand out to Ron, who glanced him over quickly before accepting the shake, “Hey, I'm Franklin.” 

“Ron.” 

“Good to meet you,” Franklin stared between Trevor and Oscar, “So, what's the hold up?” 

“Mr. Gun Runner here,” Trevor introduced Oscar, “Doesn't want to follow through on his end of a bargain, and see us safely to Mexico.” 

Oscar sniffed, “That's not true, man.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry, we're all good to go then.” 

“No, fuck, Trevor,” Oscar ran a hand over his slicked hair, “You have got to listen to me on this one, amigo. La Ciega is a no-go for me. I am already on thin ice with Madrazo, and they own that city, bro. If they catch me in those waters, we are a little more than fucked.” 

“So don't get caught,” Trevor oh so helpfully offered. 

“I like you man, we got a good thing going, but I'm starting to think maybe business has been a little too good, you know?” 

Trevor peered out over his sunglasses, “That's not a very encouraging tone you're taking Mr. Guzman. Might want to be careful, don't wanna lower company moral.” 

“How close can you get us?” Frank asked. 

Oscar rubbed his neck in thought, “About three or four miles offshore, which is very, very much where I should not be.” 

“This our boat?” Frank indicated the speeder in the water. 

“No, no, that's just for use in the harbor,” Oscar pointed out towards the sea, “ _My_ boat is anchored further out.” 

“Okay, alright, you got like a lifeboat or something on board?” 

“A dinghy, why?” 

Franklin stared at Oscar expectantly until the cartel boss turned away, cursing softly in his native tongue. 

… 

Already loaded with a small crew, there hadn't been much say in who got bunked with whom on the small yacht. Normally not one to sweat over small shit like that, Franklin had rapidly begun to change his mind on that policy when he saw how cramped his cabin was. The last thing he wanted was to be locked up for ten hours with the jittery, paranoid wreck of a man that turned out to be Ron Jakowski. 

Trevor had quickly explained that Ron was there as a translator, himself only knowing enough Spanish to get laid, get drunk, and get drugs. Which was more than Frank could claim, because he hadn't even memorized the menu at Taco Libre. Trevor had also addressed Ron's withdrawal problem by producing a pipe and a bag on the way to Oscar's boat. 

Instead of improving Ron's disposition, the wonders of methamphetamine had heightened it tenfold. Franklin had been forced to stand in the middle of the room while Ron had done a “bug sweep.” That had only lasted about five minutes, before Franklin tossed his bag onto one of the bunks and laid down. For the next few hours, Ron had talked almost non-stop about Trevor, conspiracies, their destination, then he had started to clean what he could, played with his laptop, asked to check Franklin for implant scars (a matter he thankfully did not press), before he just stopped. 

Never, in all his years to come, did Franklin think he would be grateful to see someone go down like that. The older man laid curled up on his own bed, laptop hugged to his chest, snuffling softly into his pillow. 

Sleep of his own, however, was proving elusive for Franklin. From Ron's murmuring, to the ocean's creak, to the extra firm mattress of his bunk, he found it hard to lay still long enough to drift off. 

With nothing else to do, Frank crept out of his bed and down the hall, making his way up onto deck. He wasn't surprised to find Trevor standing against the rail on the bow, rolling something between his palms. Upon drawing nearer, Franklin realized it was the man's pipe. 

“I see you couldn't sleep neither.” Trevor glanced up, eyes clear of that restless sheen that had overtaken Ron, so Franklin figured the glass tube had gone unused. 

“Sleep is for the weak, amigo,” Trevor stood off the rail, tucking the pipe into his shirt pocket, “Prime bulls like ourselves, well, we just run till life catches us.” 

“Run all you want, man,” Franklin leaned forward, looking out at the night waters, “I happen to love myself.” 

“Hey, I don't have a problem with who I am,” Trevor pointed to himself, “I accept me for me.” 

“Guy like you kinda has to,” Frank reasoned. 

Trevor seemed slightly offended at that, “I know, I'm not perfect, okay, but that's not debilitating, that's liberating,” he gestured vaguely towards the bridge, “Too many people in this world fight with themselves, and it eats at them, corrupts them. And, you know, it's frustrating having to stand by and watch good people waste away like that, until they’re these... plastic pits of soullessness.” 

“We talking about anyone in particular,” Frank asked, “Or are you just making observations?” 

Trevor threw a hand up, then rubbed at his forehead as though he hadn't quite sorted his thoughts yet. In the moonlight the shallow lines of his face were even more apparent, making Franklin wonder if Trevor was maybe in the lull after a high. He had certainly been energetic earlier. There was something else that could have caused that drawn out look, though, and it was certainly something that had been weighing on Franklin's mind. 

“Yo, dog, I need to know,” Trevor glanced over at him, “You really think Michael's still breathing?” 

“Yeah, I do,” and there was nothing but conviction behind those words, “Why, don't you?” 

“I don't know, man,” In truth, he had been planning revenge not rescue from the start, “I guess I _hope_ he's alive, but... people go missing in my old neighborhood all the time. Sometimes we find them, sometimes we don't. Most times, if they found, they dead, and if we don't find them, chances are they're dead anyway. I just don't see how Michael is gonna be any different.” 

“Because he owes me.” 

Franklin looked up in time to catch something desperate in Trevor's eyes before his friend turned his gaze to the sea. 

“He fucking owes me, alright,” Trevor gripped the railing tightly, “Nine fucking years. He stood there, and he promised – I made him promise. Now, Townley, he's a fink. He will turn his back on you without a second thought, but not once has he broken his word to me.” 

Franklin highly doubted that, “You sure about that, homie?” 

“Positive.” 

“Okay,” Frank ventured, “What happens if Mike doesn't have a say in it?”

Trevor faced him again, “Then we find a couple hundred gallons of gasoline, and we raze ourselves a little Hell on Earth. Sugartits has gotta show up sooner or later. When he does, then we can kick his gelatinous ass until we feel better. That sound good to you?” 

Franklin chuckled, “Yeah, dog, that sounds good.” 

“Alrighty then, it's a plan.” 

“It's something alright.” 

They fell quiet for a moment, the hum of the yacht and the breaking waves filling the silence. Then Franklin perked, digging around his jacket's inside pockets. 

“Oh shit, nearly forgot,” Franklin found what he was looking for and held it out. 

Trevor just stared at the blue cased phone, not quite understanding, “That's Michael's.” 

“I know,” Franklin bounced the thing, prompting Trevor to take possession, “Tracey got it to give to me before we left. She thought we might be able to do something with it, but I figured, since you went and broke yours, we could at least stay in touch if you held onto it.” 

“Good thinking,” A wicked grin spread slowly over Trevor's cracked lips as he considered the device in his hand, and Franklin knew that if Michael ever got that phone back, it was not going to be in any condition to use. The mischief would have to wait though, apparently, as Trevor put the phone in his front pocket. His hand paused when his fingers grazed glass. 

Franklin watched a strange look come over Trevor, who stilled before he slid his smoking pipe back out into his hand and began rolling it between his index and thumb. He didn't seem to realize Franklin was still there, and the young man felt like he was intruding. 

Deciding to give sleep another go, Frank headed back down below, “Alright, man, try and get some rest.” 

“Hm, yeah, night bro,” Trevor said absently. 

He stopped rolling the pipe, running his thumb along the stained glass. _Four fucking days_. Trevor clenched the thing tightly, straining not to crush it against his palm. He snarled and pulled the bag of crystals out of his pant pocket, then bunched it against the pipe. _Do it, just fucking do it_. He wound up, pulling his arm back, ready to toss it all into the fucking ocean. _C'mon. C'mon-c'mon-c'mon - Do it!_

With a strangled, frustrated cry, Trevor fell to his knees and pressed his head against the railing, holding his fist close to his chest. The fuck was he thinking. The drugs weren't the problem. Trevor stared down at the bulbous brown poking out from calloused fingers. 

_If there's another grave to visit_ , he told himself, _maybe_ he'd consider it.

… 

Dawn was fast approaching, and their little high sea voyage was up. 

Having been roused by Ron, Franklin stood bleary eyed on the aft of the yacht, bag in hand. His bunk mate was bouncing on the balls of his feet next to him, holding a steaming foam cup. Why he was doing so became apparent when Trevor took the steps two at a time to join them. 

Without so much as a “Good Morning,” Trevor snatched the cup from Ron and downed the contents in one go. This left the scrawnier man staring at him in shock. 

“Yeow!” Trevor howled in excitement, crushing the cup in his hand before tossing it overboard, “That, was some good coffee.” 

“Wasn't that hot?” Ron asked worriedly. 

“Extremely, Ron,” Trevor said with strict seriousness, getting close to his business partner, “I doubt I'll be able to taste anything for a week.” 

There really wasn't anything to say to that. 

“Are we all ready to go?” Oscar asked from the deck as he signaled someone in the bridge. There was the hiss of hydraulics activating, and then the stern lowered into a platform, revealing the black dinghy stored inside. 

Franklin set his bag down and helped Trevor pull the small vessel into the water. Then he clambered on first, and Trevor tossed him their respective luggage. When everyone was situated on board, Trevor behind the wheel, Oscar called out, “I'm afraid I won't be back to pick you up, amigo.” 

“You did your part, Oscar, I'll do mine.” 

Ron started the motor on the back, and Trevor waved as he pulled the dinghy away from the yacht, shouting, “For America!” Franklin chuckled from where he sat in the middle, though as soon as they were clear of the larger boat he got his first good look at their destination and his mouth went dry.

La Ciega was huge. Even that far out, their horizon was a mass of towering color that would have put Las Venturas to shame. There was a cluster of skyscrapers in the middle that tapered out into slums and suburbia, with an obvious port to the Northern end of the city. Franklin could make out a few of the larger cargo ships on the water. All of this sat in front of a mountainous backdrop, visible with the lightening sky. 

Never one to miss anything, Trevor grinned and helpfully informed, “Home to 4 million people, and destination to twice that in annual tourists. Not to mention all the undocumented immigrants, thugs, and drug lords. And we're only looking for one of those unfortunate bastards.” 

Franklin shook his head mutely, “Man, I think I forgot my toothbrush.” 

“Ha,” Trevor barked, “Cheer up, kid, that's why we brought Ron.”

No pressure though.


	5. Club Culo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not speak much Spanish, therefore any dialogue between two Spanish speakers will be in all _italics_. There will be the odd line or two, but if they are wrong in any way, please feel free to correct. As always, thanks for reading!

Little creepy crawlers, itsy bitsy spiders, they were his most special friends in the whole wide world and he loved them.

He loved them, he loved them, he loved them.

He loved them so much, he had given them all names.

There was Martha, and Vicky, and John, and Stuart, and Gomez.

Martha was a big girl, with round red curves and ticklish little feet. Vicky had gorgeous curly locks and beautiful bright wings. John, Stuart, and Gomez were triplets. They had long legs and not much else. Stuart liked to climb behind his ear and whisper gentle secrets.

Vicky was his favorite, but he told her not to tell the others, because he loved them all. They were more than his friends, they were his family, and he would never, ever, ever, lose them.

“Is he dead?”

“Nah,” Franklin picked through the gravel at his feet to find the biggest rock he could. When he had it, he chucked it with surprising precision, nailing the muttering figure beneath the overpass in the head. A shirtless Trevor slapped at the spot instinctively, then fell up onto his knees, yelling a grief stricken, “Stuart!” before he buried his head in his arms and began sobbing theatrically.

Feeling a little guilty, and very confused, Franklin turned to the man seated on the hood of their car. Having seen to it that his boss was still breathing, however, Ron had redirected his attention to his computer.

They were almost eight hours in La Ciega, having made landfall before the sun had completely exposed them on the open water. Trevor had driven them into a secluded harbor away from the main port, where they had tethered the dinghy and found a vehicle waiting for them in the lot next door. A gold and brown Stratum, it wasn't exactly luxury, but it wouldn't draw too much attention and they'd be able to sleep in it if they had to (Ron not liking the idea of being cornered in a motel).

From there it was a slow drive to a secluded location where their portable information scout could get to work.

Tracking Araceli directly on her home turf would have been near impossible, especially since it seemed like the woman had vanished shortly after her jet landed a few days ago. Instead, they needed to “interview” one of her lackeys, preferably someone who was personal enough with Carina to be confident in her location, while low enough on the cartel food chain that their sudden silence would not be immediately noticed.

This unfortunately meant Franklin and Trevor were once again delegated to the sidelines. Mobile games could only sustain them for so long, and Trevor's quest to replace every contact photo on Michael's phone with a picture of his penis, lasted about half the morning – it seemed the man was picky.

Time dragged for a bit, until Trevor found a revolver in the glove box of the Stratum and challenged Frank to a shoot off. They marked targets on one of the overpass' supports, however, neither of them were their missing counterpart, and bullets weren't limitless without pulling from their own supply, which they were reluctant to do. Calling a draw, both of them withdrew into their phones once more.

Right about noon, Trevor had dug around in his bag for something before he had announced he was going hunting, then stalked off in a random direction. At the hour mark, Franklin had contemplated calling to check up on him, when Trevor had come into view, towing a cooler full of food, a case of beer, and a beach umbrella. Never mind that they weren't anywhere near a beach. He had tossed the umbrella at Ron, whom had taken up shop outside when the a/c wouldn't work. Then he had handed Franklin his share of the procured meal, which Frank took without comment, the new grit on Trevor's knuckles not going unnoticed.

After downing half the case, Trevor had lost his shirt and crawled away to deeper shade, the heat apparently getting to him. Not to mention, Franklin suspected the man was likely higher than a kite.

Fortunately, Ron seemed on par with Lester, as his employer had bragged, and got them a viable name before too long.

“I got someone,” Ron announced, grabbing Frank from watching Trevor settle in the dirt.

“Alvero Jimenez,” Ron explained, showing Franklin the man's LifeInvader page, which boasted pictures of him hanging drunkenly off an irritated Carina at what appeared to be a wedding, “Brother-in-law to Araceli's middle son. There's nothing really remarkable about him, except he was mentioned in an article a little while ago – some investigative piece on corruption in La Ciega. Apparently, he was suspect in a high profile execution, but the case was, big surprise, mysteriously dropped.”

“So we looking at a hitman?” Frank asked, worried.

“No, no, no,” Ron reassured, “That was probably his initiation, like I said, there's nothing really remarkable about him. But he's family, and Araceli is known for being big on family.”

“Okay, so we can snatch him, right?”

“We can try,” Ron clarified, “There's liquor store on the city's edge he goes to almost every day, the name's all over his credit statements. I'm sure if we stake it out a bit, Jimenez will show. Unless you want to sight-see for a few days, then we can nab him at church.” That wasn't happening.

“The sooner we get to Araceli, the sooner we get to Michael,” and the sooner they get to Michael, the sooner they could move on, and get home. Not that Frank wasn't enjoying Mexico, from what he had seen the country was beautiful, and the city seemed lively enough for a good time. He just wasn't fond of the thought that the big bads of the area might catch on to their snooping.

Franklin made his way over to where Trevor laid on his back in the dirt. He hoped most of whatever the older man had taken was out of his system, especially since Trevor was likely to be doing the main footwork on their upcoming kidnapping.

Frank leaned over him, “Hey, T.”

“Hey, Frank,” Trevor greeted, opening his eyes. He didn't seem as hazed as he had been, though his pallor hadn't improved. That black eye was not boosting his image any either.

“You doing okay, dog?”

“Never better, hombre,” Trevor sat up with a groan, popping his back with a twist to either side before giving a refreshed sigh. He accepted the proffered beer, still cold, holding it to his head, “We got something?”

“Yeah, we got something, but uh...” Franklin eyed Trevor, “You might wanna put a shirt on first.”

…

They had found the liquor store easy enough, the place advertising itself on the corner with a giant neon cactus that blushed under the influence and waved its 'third arm' excitedly. There wasn't much traffic, so they had parked on the other side of the intersection where they had a clear view of the door, but were off the radar of the small crowd loitering outside. Time was not their friend that day, however, and the hours drew into long, agonizing moments in one-hundred degree weather without an air conditioner. Then the sun hit that annoying part of its descent where it seemed more concentrated than usual, and Frank had to bargain with Trevor to keep his clothes on.

There was a soft click from the passenger seat, and Franklin looked over fully expecting to find Trevor with Michael's phone down his pants again. What Franklin did find was Trevor popping the cylinder of the revolver and spinning it, before he flicked it back into place. Without missing a beat, Trevor put the barrel of the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger. Both men sighed (for two completely different reasons) when the chamber clicked empty.

That was a whole new level of insane for Frank, “Man, the fuck you doing?”

“What does it look like,” Trevor opened the cylinder and gave it another spin.

“And what am I supposed to tell Mike when he sees your stupid fucking brains splattered across the roof?”

Trevor threw his head back, “That I was bored!”

“Then play a fucking word game or some shit, dude,” _Or go back to taking dick pics_ , at least those only risked mental scarring on Frank's part.

“When in Rome-”

“Man, we're in Mexico, not Moscow,” There was no way Trevor had survived as long as he had without some sort of divine intervention, of that Franklin was growing surer of the longer he knew the man.

“Alright, dad,” Trevor gave in, “The thing's not even loaded... probably.”

“Probably?” Franklin tightened his grip on the steering wheel, mumbling to himself about staying his ass at home next time and letting the crazy white dudes rescue the other crazy white dude.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Trevor slapped Franklin's arm, pointing excitedly at a stocky man that had just exited onto the street, “That's him, that's our guy!”

“You sure?”

“Ron!”

The summoned popped his head between them, squinting towards the indicated person, then nodded, “Yeah Trevor, that's Alvero, no doubt.”

“Alright, okay, let's go get him,” Trevor practically bounced in his seat.

“Hold on, man, shit,” Franklin restarted the Stratum while Trevor clambered into the back, dragging Ron with him. The two lowered the rear seat into the floor, giving them more room as Franklin pulled away from the curb. Trevor popped the rear door, but kept it low, not wanting to draw attention just yet. Alvero never took notice of them, however, keeping his head down as he walked along, brown bag in hand.

When he did look up at the sound of approaching feet, he only had time for a frown before a fist collided with his jaw, sending him staggering off the curb. Trevor quickly latched onto Alvero's arm and used the man's momentum to haul him into the back of the car, jumping in after. The small crowd outside the liquor store caught on a moment too late, and began to vocalize their protest. Not waiting for the bullets to start, Franklin hit the gas, propelling them back into the city. Behind, two cars followed suit.

Franklin cursed, swerving into traffic, while Trevor straddled a dazed Alvero in the back, pulling the revolver from his belt.

“Where is she!” Trevor bellowed, and Ron echoed him several times in Spanish as Alvero regained himself.

Their prisoner frowned up at Trevor until Ron's words pushed through, then spat, “Fuck you-”

A pitiful, pained filled scream was wrought from the man as Trevor grabbed his hand and bit through the tip of his index finger. Trevor held the digit tight while blood gushed over the exposed bone, spitting the nub of flesh so it bounced off Alvero's face.

“Carina Araceli,” Trevor said more steadily, “Where the _fuck_ is she?”

Ron got close to Alvero, trying to get through the man's shock and pain, “ _Araceli, your boss, do you know her location?_ ”

Alvero shook his head frantically, “ _I don't, I don't, I don't_.”

“He doesn't-” Ron is cut off both by Franklin taking a hard turn, and Trevor's growl.

“Yes you do,” Trevor let go of Alvero's hand and brought the man forward, nose to nose, blood dripping from his mouth, “Yes you fucking do, you piece of shit.”

“ _He's not convinced_ ,” Ron looked as desperate as their captive.

“ _I don't, I really don't_ ,” Alvero gasped out, “Please, please, please, my son-”

“Isn't gonna recognize you when I'm fucking done,” Trevor shoved the revolver hard under the man's cheekbone, message clear, “One more time, daddy – Araceli!”

“Okay-okay-okay-okay, _she's, she's_ -” Alvero looked hard into Trevor's eyes, and whatever he saw there sent a weird shiver through his body. Hardening his face, Alvero spat again, “Élla está follando a tu madre!”

Trevor snarled and pulled the trigger, suddenly wearing half of Alvero's face, sending the rest of the man's head exploding across the back of the Stratum. _Well, fuck._

Franklin barely avoided a collision with a truck, their pursuers not as fortunate, cursing profusely before he glanced back to see what had happened. He thought he was going to be sick as Trevor licked some grime off his lips, “Man, what the fuck! I thought you said that thing wasn't loaded!”

“Probably,” Trevor corrected, waving the offensive weapon about, “I said it _probably_ wasn't loaded. You should learn to listen more closely before you let me do things, Franklin, honestly.”

Franklin was slack-jawed, “Now what are we gonna do? Man, don't feel him up,” There was only so much crazy he could take in one sitting.

“Find us a secure location, F. Ron,” Trevor pulled a wallet and phone from the body's pants, then handed them to the brain soaked man sitting shell shocked against the side window, knees pulled tight to his chest.

“Do something useful,” Trevor ordered before he crawled back into the passenger seat, grabbing Ron's jacket off the floor along the way to wipe his face off. Nobody did or said anything for a little while, Franklin weaving them towards their previous camping ground. After about a minute, however, Trevor snapped his fingers, directing them to get Ron's attention, whom had yet to move, “Hey, hey!”

Ron turned, slowly rising from some safe place, and looked at Trevor expectantly.

“The fuck he say?”

“Who?”

“The goulash,” Trevor indicated the corpse lolling around at Ron's feet, “Before I offed him, he said something, what he say?”

Ron considered Trevor's latest victim, and didn't think either he or Frank were up to their friend's reaction to a proper translation.

“Um, I don't know, T, something about missing his mother.”

Trevor nodded with consideration, giving a small sniffle as he looked out at the road ahead, “Me too, brother. Me too.”

…

Nightclubs worldwide seemed to exist through three main aesthetics: Exclusive socialization, widespread drugs, and color, color, color. For a place that thrived on the dark, they sure did a lot to combat it. Club Culo, located in La Ciega's beautiful inner city, was no different. She was marked by an archway of pulsing neon against black stone, and a line of impatient patrons that spilled around the corner. The world was moments from midnight, and the party was just getting started.

When Ron had stopped laughing (at Trevor's “request”) at the name fancily printed on the purple card he had found in Alvero's wallet, he had explained it granted VIP access to the prestigious establishment. And by prestigious, he meant frequented by La Ciega's rich and infamous, their woman of the hour being one of them.

There was no name on the card, so getting in wouldn't be the hard part, barring one problem: they screamed lowlife America.

Turned out, they got that motel room after all.

Eyes lit up at the lightning colored sports car as it made its way through the nightlife crowd, pulling to a stop before the red roped doors. Curiosities piqued and were rewarded when three well dressed foreigners stepped out onto the curb, nothing but fine shirts and fancy jeans. Thank god for credit.

Franklin had the lead in a dark blazer with the sleeves rolled up along a white button down. He made the occasion a rare one by actually using those holes in his ears. Playing his personal guard, Trevor stood in a gray v-neck, aviators hiding the eye. Next to them, Ron was downright out of place, having opted for a simple black turtleneck. The confidence oozing from his compatriots more than made up for it, however.

“Alright,” Franklin said, pulling his jacket tight, “Let's do this.”

Trevor tossed the keys to the nearest valet looking kid, having snatched them off the original owner before they had dumped him, Alvero, and the Stratum into the harbor. He pointed hand pistols at her playfully before he fell back into step with Franklin as they reached the bouncer.

Franklin pulled the card from an inner pocket, holding it out between his fingers. The very large, very mustached man at the door raised a brow at them, then took the offering. He produced a small black light, and Franklin felt Ron go still beside him. Franklin didn't take his eye off the bouncer's face as he ran the card under it, highlighting some family crest on the back.

When they were looked over again, Franklin reminded himself that the worst they could do was bar access – he hoped.

After one of the longest moment's of Frank's life, the bouncer bobbed his head in approval, handing Franklin the card back before he signaled his fellow behind him to the lift the rope, and the three moved forward. The guard at the door nodded them through, and they stepped into pitch black. At least they thought they had.

The whole hall lit up with a wave of pale blue light, momentarily revealing dancers on the insides of the walls and the occasional guest littered on couches along the sides. At the end of the wave, the door was highlighted, then they were thrown back into the dark. There was a heavy sigh beside Franklin, and he agreed, then headed forward, feeling the others close behind. The wave continued every few seconds, and the beat of music grew louder with every step.

“Fuck me,” Trevor muttered, and Franklin heard the eye roll.

“Not much different from the Unicorn, though, is it,” Franklin poked.

“You sir, are insulting one of the finest gentleman's clubs in Los Santos, if not _the_ finest,” Trevor wrapped an arm around Franklin's neck, his reluctantly applied cologne threatening to break the kid's nose, “Those girls aren't just about shaking their asses, they've got dreams, lives, all of which they support by granting a few lonely men's fantasies. They are the embodiment of the American spirit! They stand for something! This place – why it's just, just, just a...”

“A plastic pit of soullessness,” Frank supplied, earning a proud smile, “Exactly.”

And they stepped into a laser lit dome of writhing bodies.

“Fuck me,” Trevor reiterated, and Frank was inclined to agree.

The dance floor sank in front of them, encircling the DJ's platform that rose in the center. On either side were the glass prisms of private booths, that scaled the wall into a second floor, the more public tables spread beneath. Men and women alike swung from poles scattered across the room. At the far end was the main bar on a dais with flashing steps. There had to be hundreds of people present, a virtual ocean.

Trevor saw Franklin staring at the bar and tapped him on the chest, pointing towards a group of people standing to the sidelines looking more expensive than the rest.

“You go mingle with those bourgeoisie fucks,” he half-shouted over the music, “One of 'ems gotta speak English. Ron and I, we got the bar.”

“The bar? Man, you're drunk as it is,” that was simply not true. Trevor had finished the rest of that beer nearly forty-minutes ago, he was as sober as he was gonna get. None of that mattered anyway, he had misheard Franklin.

“A poor man's therapist, those tenders gotta know a little something,” Trevor explained. It had been their plan to split up anyway, try to find an associate of the Madrazo's if they couldn't locate Araceli herself, but Franklin had been hoping to keep Trevor close.

“Yeah, whatever, dog, don't get your ass kicked out,” Franklin warned. He certainly wasn't going to stop any bouncer toting Trevor through the back door. Though that was mostly because it would cease to be a problem once Trevor got the unfortunate enforcer alone.

“Relax, Ron's got me,” That was the opposite of reassuring, “Don't ya Ron?”

“What? Uh, sure, yeah, Trevor, whatever you say.”

Franklin rolled his eyes, and Trevor slapped his old buddy on the shoulder, “Good man! Go, Frank, at this rate Sugartits will find _us_.”

“Man, we're _never_ that lucky.”

…

Trevor didn't understand what the fuck he was ordering, or if he was even ordering right, but the language barrier had apparently broken enough to find him something pretty damn good.

He'd never been a man for hard liquor. Oh, he drank it well enough, but that had always been more of Michael's thing, always on about the whiskeys and scotch. Trevor, now he preferred the amber piss of beer, the wine of America's working class, the universal drink of buddies. Mixed drinks stood somewhere in the middle, though he felt that if he was enjoying the taste he might not be drinking hard enough. The flowery concoction that had been set before him, after he had rattled through a name on the menu, proved to be the exception. Whatever the fuck was giving the swirling liquid that rosy hue was also threatening to knock him off his feet.

On his right, Ron was blathering away to a bartender, had been for quite some time. Ask Trevor for an exact measurement, however, and he was very likely to literally vomit the answer. In fact, he was pretty sure he was going to do that regardless of prompting, his stomach not agreeing with the assessment that copious amounts of alcohol were a great substitute for proper nutrition.

Fuck that though.

Twirling his finger, Trevor successfully received another “mejilla pegajosa,” or whatever they fucking called it. For a speedy delivery, the young man behind the counter earned himself a suggestive grin, which got Trevor a good look over in return. The following smirk and raised brow was a very strong 'maybe' if not a definite 'yes.' If nothing else, Trevor could rest knowing that the night would not be a total waste.

Downing his fourth drink of the hour, Trevor stepped away from the bar with every intention of relieving his aching bladder. Unfortunately, he didn't quite know which way to turn, and was about to ask Ron when a siren of a woman manifested from the pulsing crowd, taking deliberate steps towards him.

She was lithe and buxom, and Trevor was sure her curves were covered in nothing but glitter and paint. He didn't have time to wonder on this sensual fairy, however, as she slid up against him and pulled him down for a rather intrusive kiss. Something transferred between their twisting tongues, and Trevor swallowed it without hesitation. Then as quickly as she had come, she was gone, melting back onto the dance floor.

“No, no, no, gracias,” Ron finished up with his bartender, a lovely young woman who hadn't danced around his questions, but hadn't quite answered them encouragingly. Everyone he had tried to speak to seemed skittish whenever he neared a hint of the name Araceli or Madrazo, no matter how careful he was trying to be with his phrasing. It was hardly unexpected, but exceedingly frustrating.

With a sigh, Ron turned to inform Trevor, “I'm afraid no luck boss, the only people who seem...”

Naturally, Trevor couldn't be where he should have been. That – Ron had learned the hard way – meant something very not good. His eyes fell to the crowd behind him, searching frantically, “Trevor?”

…

 _Bourgeoisie_ , more like bored out of their fucking minds.

Going by the cover that he was one of Madrazo's men, Franklin had approached the fancily dressed group Trevor had pointed to. He had barely gotten a word of greeting out when they turned on him, instantly enamored by the accent. Apparently, outside of lauded businessmen and celebrities, tourists had a hard time entering the club, especially Americans. To find one their age, and so humbled, was a fresh breath of air.

Though most of them spoke some level of English, Franklin couldn't get a word in edgewise, his questions answered by more questions, anecdotes, and the occasional innuendo from the women. By the time Franklin “slipped” Araceli's name, the group had dissolved into cliques, several inviting Franklin to do a line or two. He almost took them up on it, but figured he wouldn't get anywhere with the trust-fund crowd.

A little dejected, Franklin had figured one drink wouldn't hurt, and had slipped one from a waiter.

He had taken a seat in one of the public booths when he felt eyes on him. Shifting uncomfortably, Franklin scanned the crowd for a possible suspect. When he found them, they were leaning against the rail to the dance floor, unabashedly appraising him.

A small woman in a glittery dress was batting her eyes at him. Franklin couldn't help smiling back, and she pushed off the rail to sashay over to him. It wasn't until she nearly plopped herself in his lap that Franklin realized she was a bit more than tipsy. He helped her right herself in the seat, suffering a fit of giggles at his touch, then she cheerfully asked, “Americano?”

“Uhh, yeah, sí? Uh, no hable español.”

She nodded eagerly, “Okay, English.”

“You speak English?” Finally, some luck.

“Little, little English,” Better than nothing.

“Alright, yeah,” Franklin pulled back when she leaned into him, “Maybe you can help me.”

“Fuck me!” she exclaimed rather loudly.

“Excuse me?”

“No. _Fuck_ me,” she giggled into his arm.

“Girl, who's been teaching you?”

“Fuck me... please?” she tried.

Franklin shook his head, “Not about manners, baby, I got a girl.”

She whined petulantly, rolling her head back along his forearm before she leaned forward onto the table. With one hand supporting a heavy head, she looked at him with what Franklin guessed were supposed to be her bedroom eyes, then grabbed the neck of the dress and pulled it down to reveal more of her bountiful cleavage.

Franklin felt guilty when he stared, and quickly snapped his attention back to her face. He had to go. He had to go right then.

Easing out of the seat, he told her, “Yeah, okay, maybe, but I need a few drinks first, okay?”

His guest didn't seem too pleased at that, but Frank was already escaping into the crowd.

“Damn,” he whispered. Michael or no, Franklin might have taken her up on that offer a few months ago. Now, however, and he knew he would have never been able to look Jimmy, Mike, or Trevor in the eye ever again. Not to mention Tracey.

“Damn,” he whispered again.

“You seem lost, Chica!”

Franklin startled when an arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders, redirecting him towards a shadowy corner of the club as a hand grabbed his bicep to trap him. Franklin looked to his right to find he had been snagged by a short man in a suit with dark, styled hair and freaking sunglasses.

“Nah, man, I'm good-” Franklin tried to pull away, but his arm was squeezed in warning.

“Ah – Another tourist!” the stranger said cheerfully and picked up their pace, “Asking all these questions. I know who to talk to!”

“Nah, I said I was good-”

The man shifted his grip to the lapels of Frank's jacket, pushing him back out of a fire exit and through a hall. Frank couldn't get his footing, and when he tried the man pounced, crashing their mouths together as they stumbled out into an alley.

Franklin's body screamed a big fat negative, and he pushed the smaller stranger off him as soon as he hit the adjacent building’s wall. Franklin wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, spitting blood from a split lip. Doing so had almost covered up the soft _shwick_ of a switchblade.

With a hiss, he twisted back out of the way, barely avoiding a knife to the gut.

“Fuck is wrong with you,” Frank breathed, watching his attacker sway eagerly, blade in hand. They were completely alone, the muted beat of music the only company to their breathing.

At Franklin's words, a wide grin split across the man's face, “Sorry, Chica – orders.”

Reaching his concealed weapon was out of the question before Stabby McGee lunged forward, fast, but not fast enough. Frank caught his wrist and directed the blade to the left. A knee connected with his abdomen, but Franklin grabbed the leg and sent them toppling onto the pavement.

Frank's weight successfully pinned the stranger's legs as they grappled for the knife. The smaller man was able to wrestle his other arm free, and reached to switch knife hands, but Franklin grabbed that by the wrist too, pinning them above the man's head. Unfortunately, the motion had lifted his hips up enough that he got a knee in the groin.

Suddenly breathless, Stabby gained enough leverage over Franklin to roll him and reverse their positions. Franklin hadn't released his grip, however, so his attacker brought his hands together, forcing the blade down towards Franklin's face. There was an amazing amount of strength in that wiry frame, and both men found their arms shaking in the silent battle between them. The stranger's glasses fell off in the struggle, revealing manic brown eyes.

Franklin knew that look all too well. He was in fucking trouble.

As Franklin prepared himself for one last push, the stranger froze, his head tilting forward ever so slightly. Franklin tensed too, when a voice spoke threateningly from the shadows, “Drop it.”

Stabby's face contorted something close to remorse, neither of them giving up the fight to keep the blade where it was.

Then there came the familiar cock of a handgun, and the voice warned, “Last chance, Thi.”

…

Music.

Music was beautiful.

A sea of sound, it carried you mercilessly in the tides, unraveling you fiber by fiber until you were an extension of the bodies moving against you. The beat took over for your heart, pumping a bass that ached through your veins, lower and lower until you burned with passion. Then the air filled with color and you felt, you just felt, and everything was better.

Better than better, everything was okay.

But you aren't alone in that deluge, and you saw those bright greens cutting through the brume, like diamonds in a wave of coal. So intensely they seemed to search, hunting, always hunting. Countless are the times you had been caught unawares by how pure, how sharp they could be, drowning you just below the surface. They had you, they would never let you go, they were an eternity, your heaven, your hell.

Not every fate needed to be fought, however, and you had long ago accepted yours, twisted it into some doctrine of life, a clear rejection of could have been with a testament of what was. So you moved, but not away, embraced so securely are you in the cruel vision placed within reach. You did not stop until there were warm hands on your face, living breathing palms that soaked you in their heat. You would have rejoiced in their touch, but the beat was overwhelming, muting desperate words, and the ecstasy of your heart was giving way to a sanctioned darkness.

You didn't even realize you were falling until someone caught you.

…

The problem with a dreamless sleep was that a person slipped out of it as easily as they had slipped into it. There was no slow rise from the abyss, because the foggy veil of a dream had never been. This meant that the first thing Trevor Phillips was aware of (besides his name) was how abso-fucking-lutely horrible he felt.

And he meant horrible.

He had gone quite a long fucking time since he had been reminded of his age, but a banger of an E table later, not to mention the severe dehydration, and Trevor was thoroughly convinced he had just been dropped off a truck of ass whooping. Compound that with the motion of his stomach, and he doubted very much that moving from the cushioned surface he laid upon, arm draped across his eyes, was even an option.

The second sensation, after the aching nausea, to demand his attention was a simple itch. Although it really wasn't a full itch, more of an inconsistent tickle, one that was really starting to bother him the more it persisted.

Swiping blindly at his nose, Trevor didn't miss the sense that someone had just pulled away. That someone then chuckled before the tickle returned. Trevor swiped again before he could stop himself, but the hand (and it was a hand) withdrew too quickly. Oho, Trevor knew this game, and he'd be damned if he was giving his harasser the satisfaction.

Making himself very still, he concentrated on the person's presence as, sure enough, the tickle returned. He estimated where they stood, scrunching his nose encouragingly on the second touch. When the hand grew closer the third time, Trevor moved.

His fingers snapped close around a thick wrist, and with a surge of strength he wasn't sure he had, Trevor pulled its owner down and forward. With purpose he reached for their neck, rolling up off his resting place and forced them onto the floor, landing with his knees straddling the other's hips. His opponent gave out a sharp cry when they fell, but had gone very still after, their wrist and throat captive. Trevor didn't even feel their other hand anywhere on him.

Panting, Trevor blinked away his watery vision, unable to focus properly on the face beneath him. When everything stopped swimming and aligned itself, the grip about the throat tightened ever so slightly.

 _Fuck you_.

“Michael.”

Green eyes slid open, and a small, pained smile was followed by a soft, “Hey T.”


	6. It's Complicated

Michael watched patiently from the floor as Trevor studied him suspiciously, eyes narrowed and searching. When his gaze shifted to the room, his grip on Michael released, and he used the couch and coffee table they laid between to push himself to his feet, where he fought for balance.

Michael couldn't help the small sigh that escaped, and he set the glass of whiskey in his left hand onto the table, surprised it hadn't spilled in the tumble. Carefully, he pulled himself into a sitting position, using the furniture as arm rests while his ribs scolded him for being such an asshole. There wasn't much hope for him getting off the floor without help, but that was not going to be forth coming, what with Trevor imitating a spooked animal.

An apt comparison, Michael thought, keeping his eyes on his friend. The fact that he hadn't been strangled right away was either a very good or very bad sign.

“Where am I?” Trevor asked suddenly, pointing a woozy finger at Michael, “Am I dead?”

Michael barked a laugh, running a hand over his stubble covered jaw, “God, I hope not.”

Trevor nodded, licking his lips in contemplation (and probably thirst) as he returned to his search of the small place, before he stiffened. Michael thought maybe he'd gone a little paler too as he turned a hard stare on Michael, taking him in for a second time before he asked hoarsely, “Are _you_ dead?”

Michael shook his head, “No, Trevor, I'm not dead... am I gonna be?”

 _No_ , “Dunno.”

Trevor did a little turn, finally getting on solid ground, then clapped his hands, “Okay, so where am I?”

“You already asked that.”

“Well, you didn't answer,” the added ' _asshole_ ' remained unspoken.

“Fair enough,” Michael conceded, “You know Carina?”

Trevor nodded, “Led us to ya.”

“Yeah, well,” Michael indicated the room with a hand wave, “This is her place.”

“You fucking the Mexican?” Trevor growled.

“No, I'm – Jesus, no, why does everyone keep asking me that,” _Fucking seriously_ , Michael braced himself to try another go at rising, but as soon as he went to push up, his torso gave him several valid reasons why that was a bad and stupid idea. With a soft curse, Michael gave in, resigning himself to his seat until he was allowed to move.

Then there was a hand in his face, and he followed its length to the gaze of an expectant Trevor, “You really are pathetic, aren't you.”

“Fuck you,” Michael took Trevor's hand and was reminded how much muscle surrounded that small frame as he was pulled to his feet in one easy motion. Trevor didn't prolong their contact, however, and let go as soon as Michael's soles were flat. Michael put a hand to his ribs, grimacing through an ache while Trevor took to pacing the dingy suburban room.

Michael could understand the man's confusion, the space certainly didn't look like a drug lord's pad. It was a small bedroom made living space with the couch, the coffee table, a broken television set, and two windows with nicotine stained shades. Behind Trevor were two doors, the only way out. An air conditioner hummed in one of the windows, but that didn't stop the lazy ceiling fan above.

Overall, Michael couldn't say it was the worst place he had ever holed up in. That particular title belonged to a special little cabin lost somewhere in the northern wilderness. He could clearly recall the sheer joy that had encased Trevor's face when that cabin had been comprehensively demolished by a rogue tree, all those years ago. The sallow, bruised man before him was such a high contrast to that eager youth.

“Would you sit down, T,” Michael asked, “Before you fall over.” He had already hauled his ass around enough for that day.

Trevor didn't seem to take kindly to that suggestion, glaring from the corner of his eye, and Michael felt a flare of frustration. He knew what was coming, he'd been expecting it from the start, it always led to this between them. How they hadn't exploded the moment Trevor had seen him, he didn't know, he just wanted it over with.

“Alright, bro,” Michael squared himself, braced, “Lay it on me.”

“Lay what on you?”

“Oh c'mon,” Michael challenged, “The argument – we both know what's coming, get it over with.”

That pushed a button, and Trevor raised his hand in aggravation as though he wanted to argue that point, but he instead whirled on Michael, causing the other man to step back as he bit out, “You fucking turd sack,” That was quick, “The fuck happened to you?”

“Some bad people wanted me to do a bad thing, and they didn't give me a choice,” Michael explained, temper pushing.

“Bullshit,” Trevor snarled.

“They threatened my family!”

“They're always a fucking excuse for you!”

“They're all I got.”

Trevor looked like he couldn't believe what he just fucking heard, “Hello, who the fuck is standing right fucking here? Huh? In Mexico – Not to mention Frank-”

“Don't you drag him into this,” Michael warned, “This isn't about him-”

“You're damn right it isn't,” Trevor was vibrating with anger, “Because it's never about anyone but you, it's always you! It's always _been_ you – front and center, Planet Fucking Michael. Planet _who-gives-a-shit_ because he's not gonna stick around long enough to care.”

“Alright,” Michael had enough, but Trevor wasn't done.

“Now you can go and get yourself killed for all the fucks I give, but don't you make me chase you, Michael,” Trevor stepped close, poking him hard in the chest, “Don't you fucking dare not say goodbye to my fucking face, you don't have the right to not be in trouble. Loyalty may mean less than dog shit to you, but I stick by my so-called friends – and you fucking owe me!”

Michael shook his head, “Trevor, you gotta believe me-”

“I don't have to believe a _damn_ thing that slithers off that tongue of yours.”

“Alright, okay,” Same old fucking story, “I'm a liar, I'm a fucking snake, I'm a goddamn criminal, but I'm trying to be honest about it. No, I didn't exactly inform you of what was going on. Should I have? I don't know!” Michael steadied himself, trying to bring down the volume, “It was gonna end badly from the start, it was a stupid fucking idea, but I signed on anyway. You know why? Because they were gonna ask you if I didn't – on top of shooting my ass. Now, as much as I hate to admit it, I do care. I was trying to protect you, T.”

Nope, Trevor rejected that outright, holding out his hands, _See?_ “I don't believe you.”

“Well, I'm saying it, bro. I'm sorry if that's not good enough for you.”

“You know it's not.”

Fucking honestly, “Then could you at least tell me why?”

Trevor snapped, “Because I don't mean to you what you mean to me.”

Trevor might have slapped him, for all the breath Michael had left at those words. Words, he didn't really have a response for. 

“I've accepted that,” Trevor continued, “I don't see why it's so fucking hard for you to. You were right, you're a liar, and a snake, and a _Judas_ , and you can play pretend all you like, Mikey, but that's all you're ever gonna be.”

Trevor reached for the nearest door and opened it. Michael went to stop him, “Trevor-”

“Don't. You. Fucking. Dare, Townley,” Trevor growled in warning before he slammed the door as he went through.

Michael withdrew his hands, placing them on his hips as he heaved a heavy sigh, then took on the air of patience bred from parenthood. When at first nothing happened, Michael quietly wondered if Trevor was maybe not coming back, or if his brain had finally short circuited. Trevor hadn't been in the best of shape the night before, coupled with obvious exhaustion, and Michael had been surprised he'd been as coherent as he was, let alone so energetic.

Again, when the silence continued, Michael stepped over to the coffee table and retrieved his whiskey. It was as he took a sip that the door squeaked open.

A little meekly, a word that should never be associated with Trevor Phillips, the slimmer man slipped back into the living space, gently closing his exit behind him.

Trevor stood like some scolded child, avoiding eye contact when he stated, “That's a closet.”

“Yeah,” Michael agreed, his even tone getting Trevor to look at him.

Michael couldn't help the quirk of his lips at that wide eyed stare, and his friend echoed his motion.

Trevor broke first, his voice faltering into high peals of laughter as he breathed out something about “fucking closets”, and Michael's complimenting baritone was right behind him, both men falling into a fit. They were fighting for breath, but it felt good, it felt really, really good.

“You prick,” Trevor wheezed when he could catch more than a second of air, “You didn't even ask about my eye.”

“Ah, man,” Michael huffed, gathering himself before took a few steps forward, “The fuck are you doing here?”

“Rescuing your fat ass, apparen-” Trevor quieted when he was suddenly pulled into an honest to god hug, his whole body stiffening against Michael's. Fortunately, it was brief, but sincere, and Michael pulled away before Trevor could retaliate. Not one to be foiled so easily, however, Trevor didn't let Michael get out of reach before he wrestled him into a headlock, rubbing knuckles through messy black hair, “Ahhhh, I knew you weren't dead!”

“Ow, fuck, cut it out,” Michael pushed against Trevor's side and was thankfully released. He straightened himself, pulling his plaid shirt tight and trying to fix what he could of his hair, missing the fond way Trevor was watching him. Didn't they both look like shit – living, breathing shit.

And they were okay.

“Tell you what though,” Trevor bounced his finger at Michael, “You better have a good fucking excuse for dragging me into this cesspit.”

“Well, T,” Michael reached for the soda on the table he'd brought for Trevor, “That depends on how you look at it.”

“The way I'm looking at it, Mikey,” Trevor paused, clicking his tongue in disapproval, “You might have actually gotten fatter.”

Michael rolled his eyes, handing his friend the drink, “Yeah, bite me.”

“Maybe later, Cupcake,” Trevor promised with a wink, twisting the cap off the bottle, “Right now, I'm a little worried about Junior.”

“What Frank? He's downstairs having breakfast with Thiago.”

“The fuck is a Thiago?”

…

Now wasn't that the ultimate question. Because the way Franklin saw it, a “Thiago” was an abrasive little prick who liked to pick knife fights with strangers, then calmly eat huevos rancheros across from them the next fucking morning.

“Are you ill, Chica?” Thiago asked mockingly. Was that how he did _everything?_

“No, I'm just fine,” Franklin assured, curling his fist under the counter. Normally, he left the violent outbursts to his senior criminals, but he was seriously considering taking up that habit if it meant he could wipe that shit-eating grin off the pretentious fuck sat before him.

Ron made a humming sound as he sat down on Franklin's right, setting his own breakfast on the counter. When he was settled, he picked up the newspaper that had been put to the side, holding it up to read with the stress levels of someone at a bed and breakfast.

The three sat at a long island in the middle of a quaintly styled kitchen, which was more window than wall behind Franklin, offering a view of the over planted patio and a line of trees further on. To his left was a small dining area that connected to the main living room and several unknown spaces. From what Frank could garner from the short tour last night, there were several more rooms upstairs, including a few guest beds. The suburban home was cozy if nothing else, and had that soccer-mom clean feel.

Despite the obvious upkeep, Franklin had yet to see another soul besides the two next to him, and the two upstairs – and what about those two?

It had been Michael's timely intervention that had kept Franklin breathing, or at least indirectly. Thiago had rolled off of Frank at the second threat, being forced to stand to the side at gunpoint until the new stranger had collected the blade. Before Franklin could wrap his head around the two men standing over him, Michael had materialized out of the shadows like some fucking ghost and pulled Franklin to his feet. To say Franklin had been shocked was an understatement, he almost couldn't get the words out, when he did, Michael had repeated them back, accepting the young man's half-hug.

Their reunion was cut short, however, when Michael realized Trevor was in the vicinity. He gave a quick exchange of names, introducing Manolo as Frank's savior, and Thiago as his would-be assassin. Then without warning, Michael had abandoned Franklin to the company of the two men. This consequently led to the most awkward six minutes of Franklin's life (besides that one time in High School, but he had repressed that).

When Franklin could feel someone was about to comment on the awkwardness, Michael had stumbled through the back door, Ron on his right, Trevor strung between. All Frank had gotten was a rough, “What do you think?” when he had asked what happened. Manolo had immediately sent something from his phone, and the next moment the mustached giant from the front was bringing an SUV around. He had handed the wheel over to Thiago, and everyone else piled in, save for Manolo, who exchanged a few quiet words with Michael before waving them off.

From there it had been a tense hour out to the city suburbs, Franklin too worried about finding himself in a ditch to start prodding. Fortunately, Michael had vouched for them, and they were rolling up to an unremarkable, but expensive home before too long. Michael had seen Franklin's worried face, and reassured him before he dragged Trevor out of the back and towards the house, Ron helping with the burden. Franklin didn't see he had much of a choice, and had followed them inside and up a set of stairs, where Michael set Trevor down in a side room. After seeing Ron and Franklin to their respective spaces, Michael had quickly explained the layout, then had disappeared, though Franklin guessed where he had gone.

Franklin knew Michael could be a shifty fuck, but he was still having trouble comprehending what was going on. Their supposed damsel in distress seemed to be running the show, to an extent, unharmed and unhindered.

Franklin didn't sleep easy until he had found the lock on his door.

He had awoken to a coffee offered up by Ron, and Thiago sweating over a pan of breakfast – and any good the few hours of rest had done, drained right out of him.

“Did you sleep well, Frank?” Ron asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Not really,” Franklin stated, only glancing his way.

“Sorry to hear that, I had some stuff I could have given you.”

“Yeah, look, dude,” Franklin gestured to Thiago, locking their gazes, “Are you gonna stare at me all day?”

Thiago filled out his grin, “I was remembering how you taste.”

“You are one sick fuck, you know that? And I've known my share of sick fucks.”

“Not including me in that, are ya, F?” All table occupants turned to find one hungover Trevor, and a following Michael, coming through from the living room. Both men seemed unscathed, as far as Franklin could tell, despite the muffled yelling they had heard earlier.

“Yo, man,” Franklin watched Trevor take the stool at the end of the island, next to Ron (who gave a small, “Morning, Trevor.”), “You feeling better?”

“Just peachy, homeboy,” Trevor stretched, taking in the morning lit kitchen.

“What did I tell you,” Michael said from where he hovered on Thiago's left, “Get a beer in him, and he's right as rain.”

“Ron!” The man jumped, nearly tossing the newspaper in surprise, “Coffee. Now.”

“O-on it, boss, sorry boss,” Ron scrambled off the stool towards the far counter where the machine gurgled in wait.

“So, how are you Frank?” Michael asked casually, whiskey in hand.

“I'm alright,” he answered, “Still can't believe we found yo ass.”

“Neither can I,” Michael took a sip from his tumbler, his eyes narrowing down on Thiago. That wound the little spring in Franklin a little tighter.

“Alright,” Franklin began, “You gonna tell us why we're all in Mexico, sittin' friendly 'round a psycho's townhouse?”

Michael made a noncommittal noise, “I think we should wait for the woman responsible, don't you?”

“Araceli?” Ron guessed, handing Trevor his mug as he returned to his seat.

“Bingo.”

“What do you mean Araceli?” Franklin demanded, something occurred to him, “You saying she's coming here? Like that's not a problem - Dog, you fucking the Mexican?”

“You know,” Michael said, deliberately addressing Ron, “I have to say, I'm flattered to see you.”

“Didn't come for you,” Ron mumbled.

Michael didn't seem to hear him as he turned towards the skillets on the stove, “Thiago! You made breakfast. You hungry, Frank?”

“No, I'm not hungry,” Frank answered, he was on fucking edge.

“Okay, Trevor?”

Trevor leaned forward, taking a sniff, “God, that smells disgusting – make it a _big_ plate.”

Nah, none of this was fucking right.

“Hey,” Franklin pointed towards Thiago, “Who is this dude, anyway?”

“I forgot,” Michael slid Trevor's plate over to him, sitting down with his own, “You two haven't been properly introduced. This is Thiago Reyes, my driver.”

“You're driver?”

“Well, technically Carina's,” he corrected, “But she's loaning him to me.”

“Why would she do that?” There was a great deal of unease slipping up Franklin's spine.

“She owes me,” Michael stated.

“She _owes_ you?” Franklin asked skeptically.

“Yeah, that's what I said,” and there was a bit of the usual Michael slipping through, though it didn't last, “Now, Thi, this is Trevor Phillips and Franklin Clinton, two very dear friends of mine, and their associate, Ron...?”

“Jakowski,” the man in question supplied, “It's Polish.”

“Right,” Michael's smile was strained, “He's a bit of a handler.”

Thiago's eyes hadn't left Franklin during the whole introduction, and when Frank looked back to him, the man leered, “It is good to know you, Chica.”

That was it, “Man, stop calling me that, and you-” Franklin addressed Michael, who seemed surprised at the tone, “The fuck is wrong with you? They got a bomb strapped to you or something?”

Michael slowly put his drink down, glancing once more to Thiago. Trevor read something Franklin couldn’t and tensed, while Michael directed, “You need to calm down, Frank.”

“You need to calm down,” _Smooth_ , “Man, you have no idea the shit we went through to find you. I've still got brains under my-”

There was no warning. One moment Franklin had been talking, the next Thiago was on the floor, Michael's gun on him, and Franklin had followed him up on instinct – pistol aimed at his mentor, but Trevor was right behind them, weapon steadily targeted at Frank's temple. Ron took the split moment to decide that the floor was a lovely place to be.

“Dog, what the fuck?” Frank shouted, but Michael was growling at his target, “Don't even try it, Thi!”

“Frank, put it down,” Trevor said calmly, and Franklin glanced at him worriedly when he steadied his stance, but kept his aim on Michael, who only had eyes for the man at his feet.

“I'm getting sick of this shit,” Michael sounded it too, “You fucking move, and we're mopping your brains off the floor.”

The fuck was going on, “Mike-”

“Frank!”

“The fuck is gong on here?”

“Madrazo!”

“Dios ayúdame.”

Trevor shifted his aim to the older of the couple that had just entered off the patio to the man's left. The other, Carina, instantly drew a line on Michael, prompting Franklin to switch targets, and Martin Madrazo himself to pull on Franklin, their little zigzag of death and confusion getting a bit more complicated.

“Fuck,” Michael cursed, and Franklin spared him a look, “Seriously?!”

Everyone stood in silence, eyes shifting, hands adjusting themselves nervously on pistol grips. Except for Trevor, a dark gleam having settled in his eye the moment Madrazo had entered his line of sight - and what a sight it was. Franklin had heard about the ear, but to actually see it...

“Give me a reason,” He challenged, though he had never needed one before. Martin swallowed, keeping his gun on Franklin, but his attention on Trevor.

“Fucking try, gringo,” Carina warned, raising the hair on Frank's neck.

_Fuck._

“How about,” Michael started, “We all take it easy – No one needs to die today.”

 _No_ , but the way Trevor was looking at Martin, someone was certainly going to.

No one said anything, no one breathed, a pin could have dropped though it probably would have gotten stuck in the thickening air.

“Thi,” Carina spoke up, her voice steady.

“Qué?” Came the small reply from the other side of the island.

“Drop it.”

There was a small clinking as the man complied.

Michael moved forward slowly, kicking something off to the side, then stepped back to his original position, more relaxed. Nobody else moved, until Martin took a calming breath.

“Why, don't we all lower our guns,” Martin suggested, following his own instruction, though he sounded more annoyed than frightened, “And we'll just go into the parlor, and talk, hm?”

“Uh-uh, Princess,” Trevor practically purred, “House advantage. I'm not playing till you've got about six grams of lead in you.”

“T,” Michael said gently, following Madrazo's example and returning his pistol to his belt, “C'mon, bro, let's not end it here.”

That seemed to shift Trevor, who licked his lips in anticipation after glancing to Michael. Franklin was worried he was going to shoot for the shit of it, but Trevor cursed softly, weapon going slack. The tension seemed to snap, and Carina didn't hesitate to relent, Franklin following suit.

Franklin turned a hard glare on Michael, the older man taken aback by the harsh look.

“The fuck, dude!”


	7. Bottom Dealing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2016/2/19 - Because I put a note over on my FF.net copy, I thought I'd let you guys know too: 
> 
> This fic is **not** abandoned, nor shall it ever be. It just takes a lot of energy and time on my part, and due to some personal circumstances, I'm afraid an update won't be forthcoming anytime soon (but I have the last chapter already written, so you bet your asses it'll be complete _someday_ ).

Nobody ever stopped by with a gun to rob him anymore. Not that Michael was eager to be the victim of a mugging, but he wouldn't have minded the change of pace from the usual demands of revenge, blackmail, and friendship. Staring into the face of Carina Araceli, Michael had known that cold, hard fire in her eyes only meant one thing. Why, oh why, she had not pulled the trigger on sight was a mystery Michael could have done without solving.

_"I was born the eldest of five. The youngest of my brothers, my mother gifted me shortly before her passing. Tell me, Michael, do you know_ _his_ _name?"_

He had shrugged, and that fire had burned colder.

_"Javier."_

But of course, nothing dead ever truly rested, at least not in his life. So she had given him an ultimatum.

_"Let's say I say, no, what happens then?"_

_"Then I leave. And you hope,_ _for your family's sake,_ _that my cousin does not hear of your survival before I have convinced Mr. Phillips to work for me."_

Michael had laughed at the sudden mention of Trevor's involvement, and Carina had not taken the implication lightly. Yet, just as she had said, she was not there to kill him. She had come to the studio because there were precious few others in the city she could trust.

_"La Ciega is a cruel mother. Her lessons are hard learned, first and foremost being that even if you have nothing – you have family. Martin Madrazo forgets this."_

Martin Madrazo had not forgotten Michael's name, however, and had given it to his cousin as a peace offering for past transgressions when her ire had not eased over time. The gesture had been an apparent kick in the gut for Carina, whom found it hard to believe a man she had respected and loved all her life could be so cheap in his remorse of such a severe betrayal. But he was Martin Madrazo, untouchable, and to a degree, he was not wrong.

Fortunately, he had a son.

"Benjamin," the young man had offered when he had taken Michael's hand in a firm shake. He was exactly what you would expect of someone who thought they were more important than they were, with an overpriced suit, high maintenance hair, and a newly acquired degree from some European school. He was also the spitting image of his father, though he lacked that dangerous edge to his presence.

Michael had only met Ben the day before their little "operation" and he couldn't really say if he liked the kid or not. None of that really mattered so long as Ben was in agreement with Carina, that his father had to go.

Evidently, Javier had not been the first of Madrazo's subordinates to try and turn on him. The cartel lord's actions had grown increasingly bold over the last few years, putting the entire Los Santos operation in danger. They were not yet wide-spread throughout the city, yet Martin had been heedlessly calling for the executions of competitors and allies alike. Normally, everything would be chalked up to the consequences of a hostile takeover, but with every new killing, the younger members grew more antsy, while their lieutenants became suspicious of one another, wondering who would turn next. Madrazo still remained in control, but the unrest was not settling.

The hope was, for Carina, that Ben could change that, with her backing. Meanwhile, Michael would grant her justice, and trust that the cartel's gratitude and protection was really worth as much as she was playing it out to be.

"Stopped raining," Michael commented as Carina pulled them onto Picture Perfect Drive, heading for the dark ULSA campus. For once, Michael was glad Tracey had elected to remain living at home instead of boarding in a dormitory.

"That's good for us," She replied.

"Yeah, we'll see."

Carina slowed the Rocoto into the parking lot of the university's main building, the headlights briefly illuminating Manolo Acuna standing in wait by the main entrance. Araceli's top lieutenant was to be Michael's partner for the night. When Michael had suggested maybe involving some of his own people, Lester mainly, Carina had flat out refused. The fewer bodies involved, the less of a chance there was for Martin to catch on, and the easier it would be to cover their tracks if everything went south.

After all, Michael would be easier to dispose of than a whole crew.

"Alright," Michael said, pulling the hood of his coat up. Manolo had a way into the building, but the security cameras were still active, "You best not be late."

"I won't be," Carina unlocked the car, and Michael stepped out. He opened one of the rear doors and pulled a long dark case off the back seat. As he stepped around the front of the vehicle, Carina rolled down her window and called out to him, "M."

He turned to her expectantly.

"If you have a shot take it," he nodded in understanding, and she continued, "And... Thank you. This must not be easy for you."

 _Wasn't that beautiful_ , "Either I do this, and go home – or I don't, and then I don't got a home. I don't see what's so fucking hard about it."

"Nonetheless, your cooperation is appreciated," Carina strained, "I'll contact you when I'm inside, until then, keep communication to a minimum."

Michael didn't watch her drive away, instead focusing on Manolo as he made his way over. Michael fully expected him to comment on the exchange, but Manolo thankfully remained quiet on the subject, simply raising his brows when Michael reached him, and asking, "Are we in touch with B?"

"No," Michael answered, "His comm is still down. C isn't worried though, thinks we should go ahead. Chances are, he probably just had to take the headset out. How's your end?"

"All quiet," Manolo said, opening the door for Michael, "Staff cleared this building first, haven't spotted anyone else, shouldn't be any surprises for us. This way."

Michael was directed towards the main stairwell of the college's library and administrative building. He started up first, but turned when he got to the next floor, finding Manolo hadn't followed.

The man had hung back purposefully, and spoke softly to someone just around the corner. That someone handed Manolo a small ladder, before they leaned in and kissed his cheek. When his comrade turned to take the steps, he startled at finding Michael watching him.

"Your inside source?" Michael guessed, and Manolo looked away, readjusting his grip on the ladder before he caught up.

"Yes," He conceded as he walked past, heading around the corner for the second set of steps. That might have worried Michael as a possible loose end, but he had been in near constant contact with Araceli and her second for the past week. If nothing else, he knew he could rely on their judgment, they weren't amateurs.

It was quiet the whole way to the rotunda, then they needed the ladder to access the empty bell tower. Just as Manolo had assured, the hatch was already unlocked. He clambered up first, taking Michael's case with him, before he helped the older man heave himself into the tower. Michael mumbled a thanks as he took the case back, setting it up on the stone ledge.

When he was confronted with the sight of Los Santos, glimmering after the rain, Michael was caught by how similar the view was from his balcony. But that was why he was doing this, wasn't it?

Taking in a deep breath, Michael did his best to calm what was left of his nerves, opening the case to reveal a disassembled rifle. After being dragged into the desert for a few practice rounds, he had grown as familiar with the weapon as he was with his personal sidearm. He began the assembly without prompting, clicking the parts expertly into place, until he popped the tripod and lowered himself to one knee, Manolo handing him the needed ammunition.

He loaded the rifle, locked a bullet in the chamber, then peered through the advanced scope. He then adjusted the zoom until he had a clear view of the bright square that was the third window, of the third floor, of the northwest side of the Richman Hotel.

"I'm in," Carina informed statically over the headset.

"We're ready when you are," Michael answered, Manolo silent beside him, using the spare scope to keep a lookout.

The plan was rather simple.

Lure Martin to the hotel with the promise of brokering a deal with the Los Santos Vagos. The cartel was always looking for new pipelines, and the Vagos had the strongest hold of any of the gangs on their territory. Getting their teeth into Rancho would not only extend Madrazo's reach, but also open up the opportunity to assimilate the Vagos into the cartel – a deal too good for Martin to pass up.

Now, normally, the negotiations would be left to someone other than the head, but Ben had coerced his father into showing, Ben seemingly taking the lead in an effort to impress. The Richman had been chosen as neutral ground, and no weapons would be allowed into the room. That was where Michael came in.

Their shot was a long one, and it needed to be a precise one – they could not leave it to a novice. Having effectively taken down a moving jet, Michael had proven himself to Carina long before they had ever met. Any attempt to downplay his skill on his part had been successfully rebuked with that one simple fact – which also served as a grim reminder of why Carina had sought him out in the first place.

Hopefully, at that distance, Michael could scramble out of the area unnoticed by Madrazo's men that were positively crawling through the streets. Ben and Carina could claim that the Vagos had done the deed, and the two would rally the cartel in a street war that Araceli was confident they could win. Then that would be that. Carina would ease Ben into power, before returning to Mexico as the new head there, leaving Michael to peacefully rejoin with civilian life – at least until someone else came knocking.

Everything sat nice and pretty on paper, but Michael had felt that weight of dread the moment Carina had introduced herself. A long history of ignoring that instinct had taught him to fucking not to. Such a shame he didn't really have a choice.

Michael heard the ping of an elevator over the comm, and knew Carina had reached her floor.

"You'll have to draw back the curtains," Michael informed her, they were too thick to make out any shadows against the light.

"Noted," she said, and Michael waited patiently as she made her way through the hall.

Carina suddenly hissed, and Michael tensed, "What?"

"Nothing," She tried, then decided against it, "The guard is not who I expected."

 _Fuck_ , "We got a problem?"

"No," she assured, leaving Micheal to listen as she exchanged pleasantries with someone.

"Do not worry," Manolo spoke up, translating, "It seems one of them is a friend of B's."

"Oh, I'm not worried," He was a liar. Counting the moments with his breath, however, helped.

 _Fucking yoga_.

The world narrowed as soon as that cocksure, condescending tone that could belong only to one person came sauntering in over the connection.

"They've been waiting," Manolo continued, as a third voice joined in, "Ben's alright."

Good for him.

They exchanged a few more words, discussing the upcoming "meeting", before Carina offhandedly mentioned the stuffiness. There was finally some movement on the other end of the scope as Michael could briefly make out the woman's shadowed figure before she drew aside the left of the curtains. Revealed behind her, Ben sat in a fancy armchair. The kid quickly glanced out the window, then refocused on the last hidden figure.

Martin said something as Carina moved to the right. She answered him clearly, "It's been dealt with."

Manolo gave a small scoff, before he wryly informed, "You were asked about."

"I'm just all kinds of popular."

Then Martin spoke again, this time in an unusually gentle manner.

Michael only caught Carina's name, but whatever Martin had said stopped the woman in her tracks, her hands clenched on the fabric. She was stock still, and even through the scope, Michael could see the shock on her face. The fuck was she doing?

"He asked her forgiveness," Manolo explained softly.

_No, no, no,_ _no_ _._

"C'mon, C," Michael urged, but the woman simply stood there, eyes downcast. He couldn't really blame her for her hesitation, from what he could gather, Carina had known Martin as long as she had known anybody. Letting go of a bond like that, no matter how much you justified it, no matter how much of an _asshole_ the other person was, it pulled you in all sorts of directions.

Unfortunately for her, they were far too deep in the game for second thoughts.

"Trust me," He tried to soothe, "It's easier once it's done. Just like ripping a band-aid." Nevermind the scar that's left beneath.

"M," Manolo said, drawing Michael's attention.

"Hm?"

"We got Vagos in the parking lot."

"What?" Michael quickly moved the rifle towards the lot of the hotel, and sure enough, there was a group of men climbing out of a car, sporting the infamous yellow of the streets, "Don't tell me you _actually_ invited them?"

"What?" Carina whispered, forgetting herself. Martin repeated himself, though less caring, but she was solely focused on the men in her ear.

"They're armed," Manolo pointed out, his voice getting tight.

"Shit," he knew it, he fucking knew it, "Madrazo knows, he fucking knows. It's a fucking set up. "

"Esteban," Carina whispered, giving Michael pause. Who the fuck was Esteban? Then Carina spoke spoke again, her tone deadly low, "Ben."

_Fucking A._ He should have bailed. He should have fucking bailed. 

Everything went very still on Araceli's end, and Michael watched the half-dozen new players quickly convene before they turned towards the hotel entrance. There wasn't time to conference, it was then or never, and truth be told, he didn't mind Carina all that much.

The world slowed in that way it liked to when the adrenaline kicked in, and Michael pulled the trigger.

One of the Vagos dropped, and the others hit the deck, scattering for cover anywhere they could find it, but another unlucky bastard wasn't fast enough. Too soon, they were out of his sight, and he whipped the scope back to the hotel room, Manolo's panicked Spanish finally finding its way past Michael's focus.

Carina stood with her back to the window, a terrified Ben squirming in his seat as Martin confusedly looked between the two, not sure who to concentrate on. Carina growled in her native tongue, and Michael could hear Ben's stuttered, "T-Tebi!" through the headset.

The door from the hall suddenly burst open, and a tall, muscular man stood with pistol drawn, forcing Martin up out of his seat. Martin asked something, but wasn't answered, so he shouted the question again, causing Ben to wince. Ben glanced to the supposed Esteban, before he squared himself, slowly standing to match his father's height. Ben spoke, his voice trying for calm, but still shaken. Whatever he said did not go over well with the two drug lords.

Esteban, however, steadied his aim on Martin.

"Michael," Carina ordered, causing Martin to turn to her in surprise, but the glass was shattering the next moment, and Ben was screaming, and Carina had grabbed a hold of her cousin's arm.

Michael didn't have a chance to see what happened next when Manolo crashed into his side, sending the rifle skittering into the dark. Michael turned, angry, only to find a boxy man with inked sleeves standing where his young compatriot had been a moment ago, blood dripping from a set of knuckle dusters. The bull of a person was between him and his exit, so Michael did the only thing his brain told him to – he ran.

Scrambling, Michael nearly slipped from the roof as he fought for purchase on the wet tiles. He had no fucking clue where he was going, but he figured anywhere was better than close quarters with that stranger. He made it only a handful of steps, however, when he heard the thud of the larger man, then the charged footfalls.

Michael turned, ready for a fight, but was taken off guard by how quickly his opponent had closed the distance. A reinforced hand made its way to his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. Michael stumbled, breathless, and tried to regain his footing while his attacker pulled back for another strike.

Neither of them quite completed their task when a gunshot echoed across the roof, successfully stalling the other man as Michael lost his battle for balance, sending him over the edge.

…

"What, that's it?"

"That's it? What do you mean, _That's it_? I was thrown off a fucking building!"

"Didn't exactly kill ya though, did it," Trevor said, indicating the standing, very much alive Michael.

"Only because I hit a tree on the way down," he argued, "Hell, I couldn't even see straight until we were ten minutes over the border."

"Yo, I'm with T on this one, dog," Franklin interjected, "After all this build up, I was kinda expectin' something a little more... Shit, remarkable, ya know?"

"No, Frank, I don't know," Michael turned away from his friends sat on the couch, rubbing his head in frustration. Carina watched him, amused, while Martin stood off in a corner, keeping himself close to an exit should he need one – even if that exit was an opened window.

They had, as Martin suggested, moved their little pow-wow to the parlor, which turned out to be a small library with a bench-like couch, two chairs, and a faux fireplace (thankfully unlit). Once everyone had been properly seated, Michael, with a little help from Carina, had _regaled_ his companions with the thrilling tale of why they were currently "sitting friendly 'round some psycho's townhouse."

Apparently, a high-stakes assassination turned double-cross coupe, was no more enthralling to them than the local weather.

"That's it," Michael imitated grumpily. Honestly. He had thought the whole ordeal pretty harrowing, to receive such a blasé reaction...

"So," Franklin started, leaving Michael to his pouting while he addressed the two elders in the room, "How did you two make it out? Once Mike was down for the count and all."

"Fortunately, my son had a softer upbringing than we did," Martin supplied, finally moving away from his haven when Trevor did not seem inclined to take his other ear.

"As soon as Esteban went down, Benjamin rushed to him," Carina explained, "That allowed us to evacuate, before the remaining Vagos made it to our floor. Manolo was waiting for us with the car, Michael already in the back."

"There a reason you didn't finish the job?" Franklin questioned.

"We were unarmed, and soon to be outnumbered," Carina stated, not fond of their sudden familiarity. Reluctantly present, both Madrazo's were playing nice for the sake of necessity.

"There is no telling how many men Bejamin has," Martin said, "And despite his betrayal, the boy is still my blood. His mother would not be too fond of me had I kicked his teeth in."

"Speaking of which, where _is_ Patricia?" Trevor asked, "I assume you didn't abandon her to your prick of a spawn's wrath."

"My _wife_ ," Martin emphasized, while keeping his distance, "Is much loved by that shit stain. I have no doubt she is currently tucked safely at his side."

"She better be," Trevor growled, earning a hard eye from Martin.

"Alright," Michael intercepted as he gave Trevor a look of warning. The last thing he needed was for Carina to learn exactly why Michael had been so adverse to the man's aid, "Now, is everything clear with everyone?"

"Yo, why Mexico?" Frank asked.

"As was mentioned," Michael answered, "We don't know who to trust. Though our patrons assure me, that Benjamin is not so popular down here, having grown up in America. Seemed like the best place to lie low, get a read on the situation."

"Which is not good," Martin admitted, "Despite our, reputation, some of our lieutenants are reluctant to realign themselves, now that we have been put to the test."

" _W_ _ell at least we know who to blame for that_ ," Carina snidely remarked. Martin, being the only one to have understood, pursed his lips, but did not respond.

"You know, there's one thing I don't understand, Mikey," Fucking Trevor, "How come you haven't offed these two and gone home, huh? I mean, surely, Junior Fuckface would be awfully grateful if you did."

'Those two' glowered, not appreciating the tone.

"Believe me, I've thought about it," And didn't that turn those glowers into glares, "But there's a bit of a problem there, T."

"That being...?"

"He fucked up," Carina supplied.

"We all kinda fucked up," Michael defended, "And in case you've forgotten, my fucking up saved your asses."

"Yes, and we thank you, Michael," Martin placated, his temper seeping through, "Though saving _you_ has done little for _us_."

" _And what have you done, hm?_ " Carina goaded, " _Do you think either of us have forgotten why we are here,_ _Martin_ _._ "

" _My god_ _, Carina_ ," Martin bemoaned to the ceiling, turning to face his cousin head on, " _How many times do I have to ask your forgiveness?_ "

" _Then sound like you truly want it_ ," Carina nearly left her seat, " _Or are you just protecting your assets?_ "

" _Again with this!_ "

" _Yes, again,_ " Carina actually stood that time, " _And again, until I get an answer!_ "

" _If I had known,_ " Martin spoke carefully, " _You would be this much trouble, I would have buried you next to your brother._ "

" _You should have done it anyway,_ _you fucking idiot._ "

" _There is still time_ ," Martin promised, nose to nose with the woman.

"Hey, yeah – hello," Trevor waved from the couch, drawing the arguing pair back into the present, "Not that we aren't enjoying this little episode of _A_ _fecto-_ whatever _,_ but I believe I asked a fucking question."

"Yeah, you did, Trev," Michael rubbed at his temples, combating a headache. For senior criminals, the two drug lords bickered like married children. He never understood a word of it, thank god, but the last six days of his life had been filled with nothing but angrily spat Spanish. He was starting to sympathize with Franklin.

"Well?" Trevor prompted, and Michael sighed.

"That guard I shot – Esteban?" Both men on the couch nodded, "Turns out... well, he might have been the kid's boyfriend."

"Fiancé," Martin and Carina corrected.

"Excuse me – Fiancé," Michael echoed, unappreciative, "I shot, and killed, Benjamin Madrazo's _fiancé._ "

"Oh man," Franklin breathed.

"Oh in-fucking-deed oh man. The only reason I'm still breathing, is because Junior doesn't know Juanita didn't finish the job."

"You can thank Manolo for that," Carina reminded as she retook her seat, her apparent beef with her cousin put on a back burner.

"Yeah, well I'm real fucking grateful," Always a fan of the sarcasm, "Now, if I so much as look in the wrong direction, my family's dead."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Trevor rose, "What are you talking about?"

"Eye for an eye, T, you know that," Michael explained, "And I tore his fucking heart out."

"Yeah, but he hasn't done anything yet," Trevor said, looking to Franklin for confirmation. Amanda had certainly appeared in good health when she had trashed his trailer.

"And he won't," Martin affirmed.

"Yeah, I get it," Franklin decided to join their little party in the center of the room, "Rich, white folks. They go missing, cops will be all over their asses. Best to hold off on that revenge thing."

More like Ben needed a bargaining chip if Michael rose from the grave, but that was close enough.

"So what we gonna do about it?" Frank continued.

" _We?_ " Michael nearly choked on the word, "Who said _we're_ doing anything? _I_ gotta do something, I don't have a choice. You two get to sit pretty and not fuck this up."

"Not gonna happen, Mikey," Coming from Trevor that sounded almost like a threat, "If you've proven anything, it's that you can't take care of yourself, man – I mean, look at you! Turn my back for a moment, and you've gotten yourself wrapped up in some crazy cartel family feud. Now, I'll be the first to admit, and I'm sure Franklin will back me up on this-"

"Depends on what you say, dog."

"That working for these fucks, is not something we look forward to. However," Trevor wrapped an arm around Michael's shoulders, ignoring his friend's discomfort, "If that's what it takes to get you home, well, sugar tits, I'm all for it. Plus, there's this teensy, weensy little matter, you know, no big deal, but..."

"I owe you," Michael finished.

"You owe me," Trevor grinned, "And it's kinda hard to collect from a dead man."

Michael turned to Frank, "I suppose, I owe you too?"

Franklin shrugged, "We did just travel five-hundred miles to save yo' ass. Would kinda suck if all that was for nothing."

"Yeah, well, I'm offering my services pro bono," Michael indicated Carina and Martin while he unsuccessfully tried to loosen Trevor's grip, "After last time, I doubt they wanna risk having Trevor on their payroll again."

"Actually, Michael," Martin drew their attention, "Your friends came to us at a fortuitous time."

And there was that sinking feeling.


End file.
